Midsummer's Knight
Tori Phillips
The Lover Or The Fool…Playing at disguises with her betrothed, Lady Katherine Fitzhugh knew not which role she had embraced, for pretending to be her cousin in order to discover the true nature of the stranger she was bound to by royal decree was proving to be much more complicated than she had planned!Only a fool entered marriage blindly, and Sir Brandon Cavendish was no one's fool. Yet disguised as his own best friend, he was now faced with a ticklish dilemma. For it was fast becoming clear that the woman he truly desired was not his simpering intended, but her strong-willed and passionate cousin!
Praise for Tori Phillips’ previous books
SILENT KNIGHT
“Superb, magnificent, marvelous, woderful and electrifying are only a few of the adjectives to describe this book.”
—Rendezvous
FOLL’S PARADISE
“A delightful Elizabethan romp.”
—Ruth Ryan Langan
“A great read!”
—Dixie Browning
“A delight to read...charming.”
—Suzanne Barclay
“...packed with love, adventure, history...I enjoyed it immensely.”
—Rebecca Hagan Lee
“I loved this story!...Tarleton (the hero) is pure magic!”
—Martha Hix
Praise for Tori Phillips’ previous books (#ue2151293-14d2-560a-b5f3-33af4cbe5b77)“What do I owe you this time?” he murmured. (#u70259d6b-bda8-5145-b568-d2365731897b)Letter to Reader (#ua865396b-5972-57af-9563-7027b3459d3e)Title Page (#ua77ef979-a40e-55ac-9ea0-84708631166d)About the Author (#ue52eac0e-4cd4-59fa-aa14-de4dcf5e7754)Dedication (#u5d1ef4a9-5fc7-5d5b-a3cb-aca975f896ef)Chapter One (#u41c1e203-6f5a-5aa2-bc4d-fbc5c7209f08)Chapter Two (#u8cdf4194-7229-5940-962e-760dadc43239)Chapter Three (#u65d3f47b-0535-53d4-b0bf-838e8e7fc01e)Chapter Four (#uadd083cf-0c80-57dc-89bf-3bf2bb330a82)Chapter Five (#u2e1a16d8-152c-5fa3-b8ea-b139985846a6)Chapter Six (#u1c38f3ff-fc76-5df6-8b7b-ddbd6389c882)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“What do I owe you this time?” he murmured.
“The golden ribbon from your left sleeve, to match the others I have already won,” Kat replied with a smile.
“If we continue, all my clothes will fall to your feet” Untying the satin ribbon, he held it out to her. “You would not wish to see me so...at one with nature, would you?” he murmured as he drew closer still.
The idea of him standing stark naked before her both startled and fascinated Kat. Their fingers touched, and a dizzying current raced through her as if her blood had suddenly begun to boil.
“Perish the thought, sire! Our weather here is most unpredictable. You might find you’d catch a sudden chill.”
He took the ribbon from her shaking fingers, tied it in a love knot over her pulse point, then sealed the knot with a feather-light kiss. “Then perchance you might find it in your heart to keep me warm?” he whispered, the gleam in his eye turning to blue flames.
Dear Reader,
It’s June, so start thinking about your summer reading! Whether you’re going to the beach or simply going to relax on the porch, don’t forget to bring along a Harlequin Historical
novel. And speaking of summer, we are thrilled to present Midsummer’s Knight from award-winning author Tori Phillips. Critics have described Tori’s books as “superb,” “electrifying” and “not to be missed!” In this delightfully mischievous sequel to Silent Knight, which earned 4½
from Affaire de Coeur, a confirmed bachelor and a reluctant widow betrothed against their will switch identities with their friends to spy on the other, and fall in love in the process!
When a young woman kills her stepfather in self-defense, she flees, only to be discovered by a kind cowboy who takes her back to his parents’ Missouri home as his “wife,” in Runaway by the popular Carolyn Davidson. And in Widow Woman, a compelling Western by longtime Silhouette author Patricia McLinn, a beautiful rancher must win back the heart of her ex-foreman—the man she once refused to marry and the unknowing father of her child.
Laurel Ames returns with Infamous, her eighth book for us. In this fun and frothy Regency, a dashing nobleman and spy, having put up with a very silly and snobbish mother and sister all his life, Finally meets a woman he feels is worth pursuing—much to his family’s chagrin!
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical
novel
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
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Midsummer’s Knight
Tori Phillips
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
TORI PHILLIPS
After receiving her degree in theater arts from the University of San Diego, Tori worked at MGM Studios, acted in numerous summer stock musicals and appeared in Paramount Pictures’ The Great Gatsby. Her plays, published by Dramatic Publishing Co., have been produced in the U.S. and Canada, and her poetry is included in several anthologies. She has directed over forty plays, including twenty-one Shakespearean productions. Currently she is a first-person, Living History actress at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C. She lives with her husband in Burke, Virginia.
“There was a star danced, and under that was I born.”
—Much Ado About Nothing
This book is dedicated with a great deal of love to our first grandchild, Konrad Martin Schaller, born March 22, 1997. He rode to earth on the tail of a comet and decided to stay.
Chapter One
Why, this is very midsummer madness.
—Twelfth Night
Hampton Court, England
May 1530
“Ma...marriage?” Sir Brandon Cavendish, gentleman of the king’s bedchamber, stammered out the loathsome word. His stomach twisted into a hard knot.
Even though he was winning the set, Brandon lowered his racket. A tennis ball whipped by him, missing his ear by inches. He barely noticed its passing. “Me, your grace?”
His opponent, Henry, the eighth of that name and king of England, roared with glee. “My point, Cavendish! Ha! Have I ruffled your fine feathers at last?”
Brandon flexed his broad shoulders. “Nay, sire! I see you are jesting to put me off my game.” At least, Brandon hoped that was the king’s only motive for introducing such a vile subject on such a lovely day.
Henry’s answering laughter reverberated around the dark green wooden walls of Hampton Court’s tennis hall. “Aye, I would put you off your game, my lord, but we do not speak of tennis. Look you, second service!” With that barked warning, the king drew back and fired another buff-colored d all at his victim.
This time Brandon managed to return the serve, but without his usual strength. God’s nightshirt! What piece of deviltry was the king up to now? His Grace seemed to be in unusually good spirits, even if he was down by two sets. Brandon mopped the perspiration out of his eyes with the loose, frilled sleeve of his shirt, then ran his fingers through his damp blond hair.
“This game is mine, sire, though I warrant you took that last point most unfairly.”
“How so, Cavendish?” The king crossed to the side gallery where a page waited with silver goblets and a pitcher of chilled wine. “I think you are growing fat with old age.”
Brandon bit the tip of his tongue lest he point out that the king was both older and more stout than he. Brandon knew just how far he dared to go when speaking to the large, perspiring man next to him. Great Harry played the part of the bluff and hearty sportsman, but underneath that smiling exterior, there lurked a vain and vicious temper. What was the loss of a game or two of tennis to the loss of one’s place in court—or worse?
Brandon drank deeply from his goblet. The crisp white wine cleared his throat of dust, and of the sour taste that the mere thought of marriage always left in his mouth. He knew he was poor husband material; his interest in wooing a woman never lasted longer than a fortnight. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “’Tis unfair to speak of wedded bliss to a man when he is at serious play, your grace,” he remarked mildly.
The king’s gray eyes twinkled behind the narrow folds of his lids. “Aye, but in this matter, I am serious, Cavendish.”
Taking a deep breath, Brandon tried to clear the humming in his ears. “If you speak to me of marriage, sire, I fear you toss your words into the wind.” I would tire of a wife in a month’s time.
The king’s thin lips pursed under his red mustache. “Ha! This bachelor state does not please your father.”
Brandon groaned inwardly. What had his sire done now?
“Last week, Sir Thomas sent me a long letter, begging my assistance in a grave family matter.” Henry signaled the page to pour another round. “It seems that you have turned a deaf ear to all his entreaties concerning your future.”
A very unfilial thought crossed Brandon’s mind. Why couldn’t his well-meaning father have left him alone? “My future is to serve your pleasure here at court, your grace,” he replied, picking his words with care.
“Aye, and so you shall—but not at court.” With a roar of laughter, the king whacked Brandon between the shoulder blades.
Brandon nearly slopped his drink on the king’s brown suede shoes. He licked his dry lips. “May I know what boon my father has asked of you, your grace?” Do not saddle me with a wife, I pray.
“Aha! Now you have hit upon the subject of my speech, you wily rogue!” He gave Brandon another bone-crunching whack. “The good Earl of Thornbury has grown tired of waiting for his firstborn to choose a bride and settle down. He has grown weary of requesting you to do so. In his wisdom, he has turned to me, his king and liege lord.” Henry’s brow furrowed and his countenance grew dark. “How well I know the yearning for an heir!”
The nearby spectators in the gallery went deathly still. Not even Brandon dared to respond to such a dangerous statement. The king’s frantic desire for a son to succeed him had sent the saintly but sonless Queen Catherine to a distant manor in the midlands. In her place, Viscount Rochford’s younger daughter, Lady Anne Boleyn, kept Henry and his court dancing to her tune with her promise to give the man she married a house full of sons. The subjects of marriage and heirs constantly played a raucous tune in the king’s besotted mind. Henry’s Great Matter, as he called it, obsessed him.
Now, thanks to the prompting of Sir Thomas Cavendish, that obsession had turned outward, and Brandon did not like the direction in which it was aimed.
“The choosing of a wife is not a thing to be taken lightly,” Brandon murmured, not daring to look the king in the eye. He twirled the handle of his racket in his hand. “And certainly not when there is still one more game to be played.” He prayed that Henry would drop the uncomfortable subject.
“You speak the truth, Cavendish.” The king’s mood brightened again. “And your last game draws apace.”
Licking his lips again, Brandon wished for a third cup of wine. The wicked gleam in Great Harry’s eyes unnerved him. “A game of tennis, your grace?” he bantered.
The courtiers in the gallery, including many of the ladies with whom Brandon had flirted over the years, leaned forward to hear the king’s reply. Lady Anne Boleyn and her companion, Lady Olivia Bardolph, smiled openly at Cavendish’s discomfort.
“A pox on tennis, you clodpate!” roared the king, his voice shaking the rafters of the tennis hall. A wide grin spread across his thin lips. “I speak of the marriage game—for you, my fine friend. Since you have danced out of Cupid’s way for many years now—” the king swept a glance over the colorful, bejeweled company in the gallery “—much to the disappointment of many a fair lady here, we have taken it upon ourselves to arrange a match.”
Brandon gritted his teeth as he heard a breeze of female tittering behind him. “A wife for me, sire?” His heart thudded within his chest. “You have so many affairs of state, your grace. My father’s request will take up too much of your most valuable time.”
“Let your fears take flight, Cavendish! ’Tis done!”
“The match is already arranged?” The humming sound grew louder in his mind.
The king’s laughter drowned out everyone else’s. “Aye! And to a fine lady with a fat estate in Sussex. Lady Katherine Fitzhugh of Bodiam Castle! By my command, Cavendish, you shall wed her on Midsummer’s Day. The banns were proclaimed this morning at Lambeth Palace by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. This week, you will ride into Sussex to woo your betrothed.”
The laughter, which filled the cavernous tennis hall, could not drown out the hammering of Brandon’s heart. Marriage to an unknown lady in less than a month? An end to his freedom? Why had his father decided that he needed another heir? Several children already scampered around the family home at Wolf Hall in Northumberland. Brandon saw no reason to take a wife. He had enough domestic responsibilities as it was.
Belle, his daughter, would turn the household into a merry hell if Brandon brought home a new mother. And what of Francis Bardolph, his page? Brandon cast a quick glance at the boy’s self-absorbed mother who sat in the gallery. Francis didn’t suspect his true parentage as yet, but daily he grew to look more and more like a Cavendish. How could Brandon present an unsuspecting bride with two love children?
“What ho!” cried the king to his amused court. “Regard my Lord Cavendish! He looks like a great, goggle-eyed turbot caught in a net. Perchance you have won this tennis game, knave of hearts—but methinks, I have won the match! Ha!”
“Sweet angels! What have I done to deserve this fate?” Lady Katherine Fitzhugh sank to the cold comfort of one of the stone benches in her rose garden at Bodiam Castle. She fanned herself with the parchment she held in her hand. The letter dripped with the thick, red wax seal of the king himself.
Miranda Paige, Kat’s gentle cousin and companion, abandoned her trug basket on the newly turned flower bed. “Sweet Kat, is it ill news from court? What has that peevish nephew done now?”
“Marriage,” Kat managed to gasp when she got her breath back. The bodice laces of her green gown had suddenly become too tight.
“Fenton has married without your knowledge?” Taking out her handkerchief, Miranda began to flap it in front of Kat’s face.
“Nay, nay, worse than that!” Kat reread the king’s missive, in the vain hope that she had misunderstood his message. Alas, she had not. “God shield me, Miranda, I am doomed.”
“Shall I call Montjoy to help you to your bed, coz?” Miranda stopped waving her handkerchief, much to Kat’s relief. “Do you require a cordial for a headache? Shall I call—”
Kat cut her off. “Call down thunderbolts and hail to rain on Hampton Court, Miranda! Send a storm of fiery arrows into every bleating idiot who utters the word ‘marriage’ to me!” Remembering her two disastrous forays into matrimony, she shuddered.
“Who is to be married?” Miranda asked, taking Kat’s hand in hers and giving it a squeeze. “Is it me?”
Despite her distress engendered by the king’s command, Kat smiled into her cousin’s hopeful eyes. Poor Miranda! Ignoring the unhappy examples of Kat’s late husbands, she had always harbored a childish romantic fantasy of true love.
“Am I to have a husband at last?” Miranda prodded, craning her neck so that she could read the letter in Kat’s hand.
“I wish that were so! Nay, ’tis I the king commands.”
“To marry him?” Miranda’s jaw all but dropped. “But he is already wed to good Queen Catherine these past twenty years—and they say he has a paramour besides.”
“Nay, Miranda! ’Tis to some popinjay of the court named...” Kat consulted the letter again. “Sir Brandon Cavendish, eldest son of the Earl of Thornbury—whomever that might be. After the good Lord saw fit to take Fitzhugh to his eternal reward—”
“May God have mercy upon his soul,” Miranda murmured at the name of Kat’s second husband.
“Save your breath! That man is roasting his backside upon the devil’s spit!” Kat closed her eyes in the effort to blot out her last memory of Edward Fitzhugh’s face, mottled with insane rage.
Miranda quickly made a sign of the cross. “’Tis bad luck to speak ill of the dead, Kat. Say a prayer!”
“Say one for me,” Kat retorted. “Fitzhugh heard enough of my prayers and pleading during his lifetime. I shall not taint my mouth any further for his sake.” She shook the king’s letter, causing the red seal to bounce merrily on its white satin ribbon. “These past two years have been a paradise for me. After surviving two such husbands as mine, I had hoped to spend the rest of my life in gardening, and caring for my people. I did not expect to be saddled with yet another piece of vermin such as this...Cavendish! I will never be any man’s property again!”
“Perchance he will be different,” Miranda suggested, a faraway look glazing her green eyes.
“Perchance the piglets in yonder sty shall sprout feathered wings and fly! Bah! I am sick to death of husbands!”
“You could write to the king and beg him to change his mind,” Miranda suggested in a soothing tone.
Kat snorted. “Ha! An angel from heaven would be unable to dissuade His Grace once he has made his decision. Alack, I am undone, Miranda!”
Miranda picked up the parchment from the bench where Kat had dropped it. She ran her finger across the name of the suitor. “I wish you could give him to me. I am willing to take a chance.”
“You are moonstruck, dear coz. Marriage is heaven for a man, but hell for the woman. All husbands want are housekeepers and broodmares.” Kat chewed her lower lip as she thought of her barren womb. “Our good king has got marriage on the brain. He should settle his own affairs. Let him marry the Boleyn woman, and leave me in peaceful widowhood.”
“Hush, sweet coz!” Miranda glanced over her shoulder. “’Tis not wise to speak of the king in such a disrespectful manner, even here.”
Kat sighed. “Aye, gentle coz, you give me good counsel. But what am I going to do with this horse’s backside who claims me?”
“When does the letter say he arrives?”
“’Twas written a week ago Monday. The king states that I should expect to receive this Lord Cavendish very soon. Sweet angels! For all I know, the man could be here by supper time today!” Kat rose and began to pace up and down the crushed shell path of the rose garden. She must find a way out of this marriage, or else her hard-won happiness would soon vanish like snowflakes in July.
“Mayhap he will get lost along the way here,” her cousin suggested with a grin. peace, Miranda. This marriage is no laughing matter. I wish I could spy out this proffered husband, then I would know better how to deal with him.” She could not face a loveless marriage again.
Returning to her task of pulling weeds, Miranda sang a child’s silly tune. “‘A Cavendish came a-hunting in the wood, to-woo, but the white-tailed doe was not at home, to-woo. The Cavendish came a-hunting in the wood, and though his aim was true and good, he shot a rabbit and not the doe, to-woo.”’
Pausing at the end of the path, Kat cocked her head, as Miranda repeated the nonsense song under her breath. An outlandish idea bubbled up in Kat’s mind. Her grin deepened into trilling laughter. The sound startled Miranda out of her song.
“Sweet lark, you have hit it! I have the very plan when this Cavendish comes a-wooing!” Grabbing her cousin’s hand, Kat pulled her out of the flower. bed. “Come, we squander the precious daylight with our idle chatter. There is much work to be done.”
“What did I say?” Miranda asked as Kat hurried them back to the castle. “What are we going to do?”
“To exchange a doe for a rabbit!” she answered with a mischievous grin.
“They have gone, my lord.” Tod Wormsley tweaked his master’s bedsheet. “’Tis safe to come out”
Poking forth his head from under the covers, Sir Fenton Scantling glowered at the door of his small chamber. God’s teeth! How dare those London merchants send their hirelings into the king’s palace here at Hampton Court to seek Fenton and loudly demand payment of his bills! Fenton hoped that no one of importance had heard the ruckus. How dare those minions call him such disgraceful things through the keyhole!
Fenton kicked away the rest of the covers, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He studied his reflection in the glass that hung on the wall opposite him. He brushed the wrinkles out of his sleeveless doublet made of a rich mulberry brocade and straightened the slim gold chain that hung around his neck. His sniveling body servant, Wormsley, stood behind Fenton and fluffed out his white silken puff sleeves that had become crushed under the bedclothes.
“This color suits me, does it not, Wormsley?” Fenton mused as he leaned closer to the glass to inspect his teeth. Good. No unsightly remnant of food clung there from the noonday dinner.
“Right well,” Wormsley murmured, holding out Fenton’s flat hat fashioned in a matching shade of velvet mulberry. He curled the cream-colored feather through his fingers. “And costly, if those tailors who came to call are to be believed.”
Wheeling on his servant, Fenton raised his hand to strike him for his impudent tongue. Then he thought better of it, as the youth regarded him with a smug expression. One day, churl, you shall push me too far. “By that gleam in your eye, Worm, there is something in the wind. Out with it!”
Wormsley blew on the feather, causing it to flutter. “Since you stayed in London until late last night, you have not heard the news.”
“Has the king finally gotten his bloody divorce? Or has Mistress Anne Boleyn announced that she is with child? Ha! That would set the whole court in an uproar!”
“Neither, my lord. The news I speak of pales next to the king’s Great Matter, but it touches upon you personally.” Wormsley flicked an invisible speck of dust off the cap.
Fenton itched to wipe the hint of a smile from the rogue’s mouth. “Out with it, varlet! I have no patience today to play the fool with you.”
Wormsley ran his tongue around his lips before replying. “There is to be a marriage, my lord. The groom is none other than Sir Brandon Cavendish—”
Fenton burst out laughing at this surprise. “So the knave of hearts has been trapped at last! Did he get some poor damsel with child? Has her father threatened to kill him? Ha! I cannot wait to rub this in his face. I warrant, he does not go to the altar willingly. This is news, indeed!”
Wormsley cleared his throat. “It is an arranged match requested by Sir Brandon’s father and commanded by Great Harry himself. The bride is no maiden, though she is quite wealthy. We speak of your aunt, Lady Katherine Fitzhugh, and the wedding date is in four weeks—on the twenty-fourth of June, Midsummer’s Day.”
Fenton’s tiny ruffled collar suddenly choked him. He couldn’t breathe. He opened his mouth but no sound emerged. He pointed to the half-empty flagon of wine on the side table. Wormsley filled one of the gray-and-blue salt-glazed cups to the brim with the deep red burgundy. Fenton drank it down in one gulp, though its slightly sour taste curdled the back of his tongue.
What had Fenton ever done to deserve these ill tidings? Hadn’t he been a dutiful, though often absent, nephew to Kat? Hadn’t he always been polite enough to that mewling cousin of hers, Miranda? Didn’t he always bring them a little present or two whenever he had to visit Bodiam—when his funds had run low again? How he had danced the galliard when his late, unlamented Uncle Edward had worked himself into a fatal stroke two years ago! In due time, all those prosperous estates and rents of Bodiam Castle should be his as Kat’s only heir. Marriage to a healthy—and lusty—stallion like Cavendish would ruin his hopes of a wealthy future.
“My lord, are you well?” Wormsley asked, pouring another cup of the vile drink.
“Are you brainsick?” Fenton roared back at him. He quaffed the wine. “Of course, I am not well. Nor should you be, for where my fortune and fate go, yours will follow. Where is Cavendish now? Has he left Hampton Court yet?”
“Nay. He tarries, hoping that the king will change his mind.”
Fenton paused in his fuming. A slow smile cracked his lips. “Then the match does not sit well upon the bridegroom’s shoulders?”
“I hear that he all but fainted on the tennis court when the king informed him of his future happiness.”
Chuckling, Fenton rubbed his palms together. “I can well imagine, considering his amorous reputation with the ladies. This is better than I first thought.” He snatched up his cap and set it at a jaunty angle on his head. “I shall seek out Sir Brandon and have a little talk with him pertaining to family matters. Look for me after supper, though I may tarry awhile at the gaming tables. God’s breath, suddenly I feel that fortune smiles upon me this day.”
Locating Cavendish was not difficult, despite the maze of galleries at Hampton. Every tongue at court wagged of Sir Brandon’s romantic downfall. The closer Fenton drew to his quarry, the more tales he heard whispered behind lace fans and perfumed handkerchiefs. Fenton found his man deep in conversation with Sir John Stafford, his boon companion. The two lounged under one of the arches in the palace’s cobbled courtyard.
The knights were as alike as most brothers. As tall as the king himself, both men boasted the blond hair, broad shoulders and slim hips that made the women of Hampton Court, from countess to scullery maid, hungry to gaze upon them. When the king’s golden duo strode by, other men straightened their own postures. Before confronting the pair, Fenton pulled back his shoulders and lifted his chin a notch. Though they spoke in low tones, he caught the tail end of their discussion.
“Take good heed, my friend,” Stafford counseled Brandon. “Though your father might be swayed to forget this marriage, you know the king will not. Nothing annoys our sovereign lord more than the idea of not getting his own way. Be wise. The anger of our most noble prince means death.” The speaker caught sight of Fenton. “Here comes a flattering rascal.”
Stifling his contempt at that description, Fenton executed a flourishing bow. “Good day, my Lord Stafford, my Lord Cavendish—or should I call you my uncle Brandon, since we are soon to be related?”
A thunderous expression crossed Cavendish’s face as both men returned Fenton’s bow.
Good. My unwilling uncle-to-be is as unhappy over this match as I am—perhaps even more so.
“What ill wind blew you here, Scantling?” Cavendish rumbled.
Fenton took a small, prudent step backward.
“Judging from the odor that hangs about him, I would say he came directly from the haunts of the London stews.” Stafford’s clear blue eyes sparkled with merriment at Fenton’s displeasure.
Fenton forced a wide smile across his trembling lips. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, I do protest your unwarranted remarks. Especially as I have made it my urgent business to forewarn you, my Lord Cavendish, before you seek my aunt’s favor.”
“What are you prattling about, Scantling?” Brandon growled. His chiseled features furrowed with barely concealed impatience.
Drawing closer to the men, Fenton lowered his voice. “’Tis Lady Katherine, Sir Brandon. I feel it best you know about her before—”
Gripping Fenton’s shoulder, Cavendish shook him like a wet rag. His fingers bit painfully through the thickness of Fenton’s padded brocade. The young man chewed his lower lip to keep from swearing a loud oath in Cavendish’s face. Best not to annoy a wounded bear.
“Out with it, man! Is she poxed?” Brandon shook him again.
“Nay!” Fenton winced. “As far as I know, she is pure as snow. ’Tis her age I speak of.”
Brandon released his grip on Fenton’s shoulder. “You babble riddles to me, and I am not in the mood for games.” He lowered his face to Fenton’s. “I am more in mind to stab something—soft. Be plain and quick. My dagger itches to be free of its sheath.”
Fenton swallowed. Cavendish’s forthcoming marriage had certainly soured his usual good humor. “’Tis this, my lord. My Aunt Katherine is...er...quite old. Indeed, I am much surprised that the king chose her for you. She is past the time of childbearing. And she has always been barren—at least, with her first two husbands.”
“How old?” Brandon exploded the words out of his mouth.
Fenton allowed himself a small laugh. “Ah, you of all people should know the ladies, Sir Brandon. They are forever changing the dates of their births to suit their purposes. I cannot say my aunt’s exact age. But I think she is closer to your lady mother than to you.” He coughed behind his hand to hide his grin.
Cavendish said nothing, but stared out across the courtyard at the chapel windows gleaming in the midafternoon sunlight.
“Two husbands, you say?” Lord Stafford whistled through his teeth. “Pray, what happened to them?”
Fenton controlled his glee. Like massive trout, these mighty lords were rising to his colorful bait. “I am surprised ! Did no one tell you that my aunt had been married before?”
Brandon threaded his fingers through Fenton’s chain. He tightened his hold on it, pulling the younger man closer. Fenton prayed the golden links would not break. The chain had cost him several months’ allowance.
Icy danger lurked within the depths of Cavendish’s startling blue eyes. “Tell me now,” Brandon murmured in a warning tone.
Fenton inhaled a deep breath. “Aunt Kat was first married to my Lord Thomas Lewknor. They say he took sick on their wedding night, and then spent eighteen painful months in bed. Nursed, of course, by my good aunt. He died finally—foaming at the mouth,” Fenton added for good measure.
A look of horror crossed Cavendish’s face.
“And her second husband?” prompted Stafford.
“’Twas Sir Edward Fitzhugh.”
“I knew of him.” Brandon narrowed his eyes. “He was a brawler of the first order, as I recall, and had a temper like wildfire. I knew he often beat his servants. I felt sorry for the lady who was married to him.”
The softened tone in Brandon’s voice did not suit Fenton’s purpose at all. “Aye, you speak the truth. My step. uncle was the devil’s own spawn. ’Tis no wonder that my aunt grew weary of him. Even an angel would have lost patience with Fitzhugh the Furious.” Fenton lowered his voice. “They say he died of a sudden stroke in his brain.”
He allowed the implied accusation to hang unspoken in the air before he continued. “I had just come up to court at the time, so I cannot speak from personal knowledge as to the exact manner of his death. Fitzhugh was buried under the chapel stones by the time I had returned to Bodiam Castle.” He did not mention that it was six months after Fitzhugh’s death before he had found time to visit his widowed aunt. No need to muddle the tale with petty details.
“I see.” Cavendish’s blue eyes took on a cloudy aspect.
Fenton had no idea if this change boded good or bad for his intent. Licking his lips again, he plunged on. “I thought to warn you, my lord. After all, two husbands have met with dubious endings while in Aunt Katherine’s care.”
Brandon turned his full attention back to Fenton. “You have done well to speak to me. I am in your debt, my lord.”
“Once the king understands your concerns of marriage with my aunt, I am sure he will change his mind, and match you with another, more agreeable lady,” Fenton suggested smoothly.
“Who knows what the king will do, save God and the Lady Anne Boleyn? But I shall pursue the matter.” Brandon bowed. “Your servant, sir.”
Fenton returned the courtesy. “God give you a pleasant day, my lords.” He left the two golden giants with the thoughts he had planted. Now to pen a loving note to dear Aunt Kat, and warn her of the lecherous fortune hunter coming her way. If Sir Brandon failed to move the king against this marriage, Lady Katherine Fitzhugh would surely do the task.
Brandon watched Scantling’s thin figure retreat down the colonnade. He curled his lips with distaste.
Stafford whistled again. “An old crone who is a husband killer? Zounds, Brandon! You have landed in a fine pickle barrel this time.”
Brandon rubbed his chin. “Perchance, but consider the source of this news.” He hated to admit that Scantling’s wasp tongue had stung him.
Jack met Brandon’s gaze. “I heard that Scantling’s creditors grow daily in number, especially since your forthcoming marriage has been broadcast.”
“Aye.” Brandon nodded. “Scantling’s resources are very slender, and his waste is great. Methinks the devoted nephew speaks with his own interest in mind.”
“The boy has a peacock’s air about him,” Jack agreed. “’Twould be no surprise to find the print of his lips upon his own looking glass.”
Brandon merely grunted in reply. If only there was a way he could meet this elderly widow without her knowing who he was. A good soldier always scouted the lay of the land before engaging in battle.
Jack grinned. “As to his aunt, if I were you, I’d hie down to Sussex and see this lady for myself. If she is withered, or a witch stirring a poisonous brew, then I’d—”
Brandon’s laughter cut off Jack’s further speech. Good old Jack! Brandon clapped him around the shoulders.
“You have struck the bull’s-eye, my friend! Aye, let us be off for Bodiam Castle at first light tomorrow. ’Tis time you went a-courting.”
Jack’s eyes widened, and his skin took on a paler hue. “I, a-courting? What do you mean?”
Brandon laughed again as the intriguing idea continued to take shape in his mind. “’Tis called a midsummer’s madness. Jackanapes. And we have much work to do twixt now and then.”
“Meihinks you have already been touched by the moon,” Jack muttered, shaking his head.
Chapter Two
Miranda looked up from her embroidery hoop as Kat entered their chambers on the second floor of the central square tower. Sunlight streamed pleasantly through the open casement window, and a light breeze carried the scent of fresh-mown hay and hot mint into the room. Kat waved another letter in her hand.
“More news, coz?” Miranda tried to keep the note of disappointment from her voice. She had been looking forward to enacting Kat’s bold masque, especially since she had the starring role. She prayed the letter’s contents wouldn’t scotch the plan. “Has...has the king changed his mind?”
“Nay, no such luck as that!” Kat settled herself amid the plump woolen cushions on the window seat. She slit the wax seal with her fingernail. “’Tis from Fenton,”
“Ah, I should have guessed.” Probably another plea for more money, Miranda thought as Kat unfolded the thick paper. “What does he say now?” She paused, then changed her voice to mimic Fenton’s whine. “‘Dearest Aunt Katherine, how I miss you, and I pray daily for your continued good health!”’
Kat smiled over the top of the paper. “His opening words are something like that. Go on, soothsayer. Tell me what else does my loving nephew write?”
Miranda threaded her needle with buttercup yellow silk. “Let me think. Ah! ‘The court is ever busy here, and all turn upon the king’s fancy. We are to enact a new masque, and the costumes are quite elaborate. I am to take the part of...”’ Miranda considered a moment as she knotted one end of the floss, then she continued, “‘Of Apollo, a high honor indeed. But, dearest Aunt, the costume requires a great deal of golden thread and cloth-of-gold material. Alas, I fear my allowance, generous as it .is from you, cannot cover this unforeseen expenditure...’ And so on, and so on. How much does the little beggar want now?”
Kat shook her head. “Not this time!”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “May the clouds rain cats and dogs!”
Kat frowned as she perused the letter. “He writes of my marriage, and wishes me joy in it.”
“Ha! There is something else between the lines. I can feel it.”
Kat arched one eyebrow at her cousin. “Only too true, I fear. He then goes on to say that he knows Sir Brandon Cavendish well.”
“I do not like the sound of that!” Miranda jabbed her needle into the collar of the night shift she worked upon.
“Sweet Saint Anne!” Kat erupted. “Oh, Miranda, I must be the most unfortunate of women on this green earth!”
Miranda put down her sewing and regarded Kat more intently. “How now?”
Kat rattled the offending paper. “Fenton warns me that this Cavendish toad is far too young for me. ‘Barely dry behind his ears,’ he says. This...boy has only just won his spurs, and he is much given to...God shield me!”
“What?”
Kat read, “‘Cavendish is a ruffian who will swear, drink, dance and revel the night away. He commits the oldest sins in the newest fashion. In short, dear Aunt, Sir Brandon is as lecherous as a monkey. He will top anything in skirts between the ages of seven and seventy.”’ Balling up the paper, she hurled it toward the fireplace. “Alack! I am undone by the king’s whimsy. First, I nursed an old man on death’s door, and then tried to tame a devil, and now I am offered to a half-grown rooster to school! ’Tis enough to make me consider taking the veil!”
Miranda watched Kat pace the newly waxed floorboards for a few minutes, then she quietly asked, “Do you believe Fenton?”
Kat stopped in midstride. “Not as far as I can throw him. We both know from experience that Fenton says and does nothing that is not to his own advantage. ’Tis not my happiness he is concerned for, but my purse strings. With me married to a husband, no matter how young, Fenton will experience more of a money problem than he already has. And if, perchance, this...whoring, lusting fledgling manages to get me with child, Fenton will stand to lose a great deal more—in fact, my whole estate.” Kat stroked her chin with her forefinger.
Miranda sighed. “A babe would be sweet to have in the house. Do you think it is possible?”
“How do I know?” Kat snapped. “My first husband was too ill to breach me, and my second...” She shuddered at the thought. “Let us not dwell upon the second at all. A babe.” She considered the idea. “Hmm. I fear I am past my ripe years. A babe would be a gift from God that I would bear willingly even if I had to raise its father alongside of it.”
“Do we still go forward with our plan?” Miranda asked. She sent a silent prayer to heaven. ’Twould be such fun to be wooed, even if the bridegroom was just a few years out of leading strings. A lusty youth! Perhaps he still had all his teeth, unlike Kat’s first two husbands.
Kat smiled grimly. “Of course we will.”
“Do you truly think it will work?”
Taking Miranda by the hand, Kat led her to the gold-framed glass near the bed. “Look you, dearest coz. We are as much alike as sisters, which is not surprising considering that our dear mothers were exactly that. Even though you are a few years younger than I, we are of like stature, of like figure—though, I do confess with envy that your waist is an inch or two narrower. Our hair is the same shade of auburn, our eyes the same green.” Kat turned Miranda toward her and cradled her face between her hands. “Best of all, no one at court, other than Fenton, has ever seen Lady Katherine Fitzhugh. No one will know that we have exchanged places.”
“I will know,” announced a dirgelike masculine voice from the doorway. “And I like it not.”
Kat laughed, this time with a happier note. “Ah, Montjoy! You never like anything at all, but only delight in pointing out the dark side.”
Montjoy sniffed as if his nose ran with a cold. “What you propose is a lie, my lady.” Wagging his forefinger like a schoolmaster, the castle steward shuffled into the room. He regarded both women with a doleful mien. “Mark my words, Lady Katherine, a relationship begun with deceit will end in misery.” He dragged out the last word in three long syllables.
Laughing all the more, Kat draped herself around the old man’s shoulders. “Montjoy, my good conscience, what would we ever do without your joyful presence to gladden our days?”
Montjoy took out a large stained handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly before answering. “You’d be gone to the devil, my lady, and there is the beginning and end of it.” He sighed deeply.
“How now, Montjoy,” Miranda said, taking his hand in hers. “Have you told everyone in the household of Kat’s plan? Will they all play this game with us?”
Blowing his nose even louder, Montjoy managed to look sadder than before. “Aye, mistress, I have told them, much against my will. Even down to the potboys and stable lads. Scamps, every last one of them! They love you too much, my lady. They have all agreed to this...this folly of yours. When the king’s man comes to court you, we are all to call Mistress Miranda by Lady Katherine’s name, and Lady Katherine will become Mistress Miranda. What will the poor man do when he learns the truth? How long do you intend to keep him hoodwinked? ‘Tis against nature. I am sure ’tis a sin.”
Kat tickled him behind his ear. “No doubt, Montjoy, so storm heaven with your prayers for us. In the meantime, we shall make merry sport with this youthful bridegroom of mine. Only for a day or two, until I can spy out his true nature. He will not put on a false front with the poor cousin of Lady Katherine.”
“Only a day or two?” Miranda asked a little too brightly. She had hoped for a week, at least. A week of sweet love words whispered in her ear, of flowers and poetry, and perhaps even a song sung just for her.
Kat crossed around Montjoy’s spare form and hugged Miranda. “Mayhap a week then, if ’twill please you, Miranda. I am in no hurry. Midsummer’s Day lies three weeks away.”
“It does not please me—not one hour of it!” Montjoy moaned.
“But you will play the part, won’t you, dearest, sweet Montjoy?” Kat wheedled with a smile.
The older man sighed as if he balanced the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Aye, my lady. You know that I will, as long as I do not have to tell the lie direct.”
“We will pray most earnestly that the occasion will never arise,” Kat soothed him, with a wink to Miranda over the steward’s gray head.
Miranda managed to smother her giggle. She would never offend Montjoy’s dignity for all the world, but he was such fun to gently tease.
Outside, the blare of a hunting horn trembled through the warm forenoon. For a moment, maid, mistress and man gaped at one another with wordless wonderment. Then all three rushed to the window and stared out across the moat toward the fields beyond.
“By our larkin! ’Tis the lusty youth come to woo at last, or else, I am much mistaken. That was Granger’s horn. I stationed him in the high meadow to give us fair warning.”
Miranda crumpled her embroidery in her hands. Her mouth went dry and her heart began to beat faster. Despite the sweet breeze coming through the open window she felt very light-headed. “Now? This minute?” Leaping trout! She was about to become the lady of the manor and she had yet to decide what to wear.
“’Tis the knell that summons us down the primrose path of perdition,” Montjoy predicted in an ominous tone.
Kat smiled, though Miranda saw the corners of her mouth tremble. Good! I am glad that Kat is as nervous as I.
“I am filled with much good cheer that you are so happy, Montjoy.” Kat clapped her hands. “Quickly! Let us be about our preparations. Montjoy, receive our guest, and conduct him to the hall. Have Columbine take her place in the minstrel’s box, and tell her to play something soft on her lute. Miranda, do not stand there like a goose—hurry! Put on my pale green silk at once!”
Miranda blinked. “Why your green? Mine is of the same material.”
“Aye, but mine is richer trimmed as befits a lady of my station. ’Tis only right and proper for the Lady Katherine to receive her betrothed in one of her best gowns. So be about it! Montjoy, send us Laurel to help my cousin dress. Oh, do hurry, everyone! They shall be upon us at any moment.” Kat shooed the reluctant steward out of the room, then started to unlace Miranda’s brown woolen day gown.
“M...my betrothed.” Miranda’s hand fluttered to her throat. Even if this masque lasted only a day, she would remember it for the rest of her life. All her dreams were coming true—a silken gown with gold lace and seed pearls—and a real live suitor to charm.
The horn sounded again. Miranda swallowed hard. Kat swore under her breath when she tore a nail on one of Miranda’s points. Laurel, a short, dimpled girl of sixteen, rushed into the room.
“My lady, they come! I saw them from the battlements. What a grand sight, to be sure! They are still far-off, but you can just spy their banners waving near the crest of the hill,” she informed her mistress with a great deal of giggling. She relieved Kat of Miranda’s knotted laces. “Aye, and a right colorful display they are, too. Mistress Miranda, how did you get yourself into such a tangle?”
Kat paused in smoothing the wrinkles out of her dove gray woolen gown. “Not Mistress Miranda this day, Laurel. She is now my Lady Katherine—and don’t you forget it.”
Laurel giggled again. “Oh, aye, my mind mistook. What a piece of tomfoolery this will be! Miss...your pardon, my Lady Katherine, would you kindly not wiggle so much? How can I dress you properly if you must dance a galliard while I do it?”
Standing on her tiptoes, Miranda tried to see out the window. “Are they in sight yet? What does he look like?”
Adjusting her plain gray coif, Kat glanced out the window again. “Stars! He has brought half the king’s army with him.”
“Goodly men?” Laurel’s voice sparkled with interest.
“Where?” Miranda asked at the same time. Both women joined Kat at the window. All three leaned far out over the stone ledge and fixed their gaze upon the opposite hill where a large, colorful group of men paused on their horses. “Great wailing wolves, coz! We are about to be invaded!”
“Is all our company drawn near?” Brandon’s gaze swept over the group: two squires, his master huntsman, his falcon, several panting greyhounds, three grooms, a dozen men-at-arms and a grinning co-conspirator, Jack Stafford.
“Aye, my lord,” replied Jess, the huntsman. “Is that the lady’s home?”
Brandon swallowed down the knot that had formed in the base of his throat, Ridiculous! Ten years jousting in the lists of England and fighting on the fields of France had not made him feel half as nervous as he did at this moment.
“Bodiam Castle,” he snapped.
“A pleasant place to look upon,” Jack observed.
“Aye, I have seen worse prisons,” Brandon remarked, his brows furrowed above his eyes.
The men behind him guffawed. Brandon twisted the reins between his fingers. God’s death! Why did his stomach play havoc with his breakfast? ’Twas only an old woman. At least, her castle looked welcoming, he thought as he studied his new estate-to-be.
Situated comfortably in a gently rolling valley on the banks of the river Rother, Bodiam’s white limestone walls reflected the bright sunlight. Brandon guessed that the square fortress had been built several hundred years ago, but he could see it was well maintained. Stout barrel towers guarded each corner with square towers at the center of the north and south curtain walls. Above each tower, a colorful banner waved in the breeze.
The bright sun glinted off the diamond panes of glass that filled the wide arched windows on the second and third floors—as curious to the eye as lacy-cut paperwork. The open drawbridge lay snug against the near bank of the moat, and a bevy of white swans glided leisurely across the still green water. Above the open portcullis, a flag, larger than the others, snapped against its pole. A silver unicorn lay on a green silken field—the Lady Katherine’s personal device, Brandon presumed.
“Well?” Jack poked Brandon with his crop. “Do we ride to yon castle, or do we turn tail?”
Brandon glared at his best friend. Jack winked back at him. With a sigh of exasperation, Brandon turned his horse and faced his party. If only his men would stop grinning like monkeys! Thank all the saints that his brother Guy was safely five hundred miles away with his French wife and baby daughter! Guy would be hooting at him by now.
“Men,” Brandon began, then cleared his throat to banish the high-pitched frog that lurked therein. “From now on, you will render the service due me to Sir John. Until further notice, he is Lord Brandon Cavendish, and I am Jack Stafford. That goes double to you varlets.” Brandon glared at the squires, Mark and Christopher.
The two seventeen-year-olds nodded with wide smirks on their faces.
“One word of our disguising from any of you, and I will personally take a whip to your backs.” Brandon tried to sound as if he meant it. The trouble was, he didn’t—and the whole company knew it. “On the other hand, if this farce plays out well, there will be a golden angel in each of your pockets come Midsummer’s Day.”
“You can rely upon us, my Lord...ah...Stafford,” Jess answered for the company.
Jack adjusted his new blue velvet hat and straightened the red felt traveling cloak about his shoulders. “Do I look like the high-and-mighty Sir Brandon Cavendish, eldest son of the Earl of Thornbury, my Lord Stafford?” he asked with a merry gleam in his eye. “Do I look the part of the panting bridegroom?”
“You look like the very devil,” Brandon muttered. He glared at the castle again, then threw back his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Sound your hom, Jess. They know we are here. Let us make a brave charge and engage the enemy in her lair.”
Brandon urged Windchaser into a gallop down the hill, followed closely by Jack and the others. The greyhounds gave tongue, while Jess blew his horn like the angel Gabriel announcing the final judgment day. The halloo of the men and hounds, and the thudding of the great horses’ hooves on the soft greensward did much to relieve the tension of Brandon’s coiled nerves. If this was to be a battle of wits and hearts, he would attack bravely.
The two lords reined their horses into a sedate walk as they approached the drawbridge. A clear girlish giggle sang over their heads. Brandon and Jack glanced up just in time to see three women, two with reddish brown hair, and the other one with hair the color of ripe wheat, duck back from the tower window. The entire south battlements appeared to be filled with many smiling maidens and a few stern-looking men-at-arms.
“Methinks the enemy has spied us, and has appraised our strength,” Jack remarked with a chuckle. “Comely wenches. This little holiday in the country may prove quite diverting for me.”
“Your eyes are only for the Lady Katherine, until I say otherwise,” Brandon growled as he walked his horse across the wooden planks of the drawbridge. “Best remember that, my friend.”
Jack feigned a sigh. “I shall woo up storms of tears and swoons. I shall give my very best performance to date. Too bad ’twill be wasted on a lady of advanced years,” he added, arching his eyebrow. “And one reputed to be a witch.”
“Bite your tongue, Stafford,” Brandon rumbled under his breath. He did not like to be reminded of that uncomfortable possibility. Having to marry her was bad enough.
With a grin, Jack shook his head. “Nay, not so. I am Sir Brandon, and you are his boon companion, Jack Stafford.” They passed through the double gateways into the castle courtyard. “And now, let our play begin.”
Chapter Three
Running her fingers along the round, whitewashed wall of the tower’s stairwell, Kat descended the spiral stone steps that led into the hall. The cool stone under her fingertips gave her a welcome reassurance. The dulcet tones of Columbine’s music told Kat that everything was proceeding according to plan—so far. At the base of the steps, she straightened her coif, fluffed out its white veil over her shoulders, then took a deep breath. Let us see what manner of schoolboy has come to call. Lifting the trailing hem of her skirts, she swept into the lofty central chamber.
At the sound of her entrance, two blond giants turned in her direction. Halting abruptly, Kat nearly fell over a small footstool. Sweet angels! Who were these men, and where was Sir Brandon?
“Good day, fair lady,” said the first. Doffing his blue cap, he swept her a low courtly bow. His mellow baritone voice sang pleasantly in her ears. “Do I have the honor of addressing Lady Katherine Fitzhugh?”
“I...that is...” To cover her confusion, as well as to give her time to think, Kat dipped into a graceful curtsy. Her knees wobbled under her skirts. Had she mistaken the identity of her visitors? Were these gentlemen emissaries from the king, and not her betrothed at all? If that was the case, she should reveal herself immediately. And yet...
Rising slowly, Kat smiled with a false brightness. “Pray, forgive me, my lords. We do not often entertain such noble gentlemen as yourselves here at Bodiam. I fear you must think me a ninny.”
She advanced closer to them, praying that one or the other might introduce himself. Kat caught her breath. What a handsome pair! The one in the velvet hat easily stood six feet in height. His blue eyes reminded her of a summer sky reflected in a pool of clear spring water. He held his lean body gracefully, perhaps a little too gracefully for her taste.
The second man cleared his throat, then bowed in turn. though he did not sweep so low to the floor as the first. “Forgive us, my lady. Methought your usher had announced our arrival. In truth, it seems your whole castle saw us ride in. Permit me to introduce Sir Brandon Cavendish of Wolf Hall.” He pointed to his companion.
Kat blinked at the smiling man, then dropped into another curtsy. Cavendish? This was no beardless youth—though his handsome face was clean shaven—but a man in his full prime. This was the bridegroom whom the king had chosen for her? Miranda will swoon on the spot when she claps an eye on him.
“And I am Sir John Stafford, come to bear witness of your joy to the king.” Stafford cleared his throat again.
Kat looked up fully into the second man’s face. This time her traitorous knees deserted her. She swayed. Moving swiftly, Stafford caught her before Kat collapsed into an undignified heap of petticoats and gowns. With a hint of a smile playing about the corners of his lips, he guided her to one of the high-backed armchairs.
“Are you well, my lady? Shall I call for your usher?”
“Nay,” Kat gasped. “My thanks, good sir. I slipped upon the floor. I...er...we take pride in keeping the floor tiles polished with beeswax. How very clumsy of mel” I sound like a complete fool!
Kat’s cheeks flamed. If Sir Brandon presented a picture of a Greek god come down to her hearth, he paled in comparison to Sir John. Slightly taller than his friend, Stafford’s shoulders filled—nay, strained—the seams of his forest green doublet, as if he would burst out of them at any moment. While Sir Brandon’s voice reminded her of warm honey dripping from the comb, Sir John’s deeper tones promised something more dangerous and exciting.
The room wavered before her eyes. Kat gripped the arms of the chair. She must get hold of herself. She was no giddy maiden on a May morning, but a woman of nearly thirty years. ’Twas almost the dinner hour. No doubt her dizziness stemmed from hunger.
Stafford knelt by her chair and took one of her ice-cold hands in his. “Clumsy is not a word I would use to describe you, my lady.” Stafford’s brilliant blue eyes twinkled with open amusement. He brushed his lips lightly across the back of her hand.
Angels in heaven! What magic is this stranger working upon me? And in full view of my betrothed—no, not my betrothed. Not yet. I am not Kat.
“I fear I am no lady...” she began, then stopped, realizing how scandalous that must sound.
Sir John’s smile widened as he continued to hold her clammy hand within his large warm ones. “No lady?” His gaze roved from her eyes, to her shoulders to the outline of her breasts under the plain bodice of her gown. “Your beauty gives the lie to that.”
Kat’s pulse skittered alarmingly. This man is seducing me in my own hall—before dinner, or even before proper introductions.
Kat sat up straighter. “I am Mistress Miranda Paige, cousin to the lady of the house.”
“My loss,” Sir John whispered under his breath.
Not sure what he meant by that, Kat plunged on with her part. “My Lady Katherine begs your patience, my lords. The suddenness of your arrival has put us all in a whirl. She is above, preparing herself to receive you, Sir Brandon.”
Poor Miranda! What a shock this handsome gallant was going to be to her! Kat prayed that her cousin would keep her wits about her upon first introduction.
“A masterpiece of perfection takes time to prepare. ’Tis made all the more desirable by the wait,” Sir Brandon replied, shooting a quick glance to his companion.
“Just so,” Sir John murmured. After pressing his lips on the sensitive skin of her palm, he released Kat’s hand.
Like a lark caught in a snare, her heart fluttered wildly within her breast. An uneasy silence settled over them. Kat thanked her foresight for having Columbine play her lute. The girl’s sweet music filled the gap in the conversation. Biting the inside of her lips, Kat struggled to think of something clever to say. Neither Lewknor nor Fitzhugh had bothered to pay her court. She had never set eyes on either of her husbands until they had met at the church door to take their wedding vows. During thirteen years of loveless marriages, the opportunity for witty conversation and harmless flirtation had never presented itself—until now. Sweet Saint Anne, help me!
“I must confess, Mistress Paige, I did not expect to find so agreeable an interior to your lady’s castle when we first rode through its gate.” Sir Brandon surveyed the room with approval in his expression. “A fortress on the outside, and a pleasant bower within.”
Kat released a pent-up breath. At least, the man—her betrothed, she had to remind herself—had given her a blessed opening. “Yes, I am...we are quite pleased with the result of the plaster and paint over the rough walls. The linen-fold carving on the paneling is my...cousin’s especial pride. Much work has been done since my...my lady’s husband died.” Careful—watch every word. Miranda! How long does it take to change your gown?
“Ah, yes, I had heard that the Lady Katherine was married before,” Sir John remarked with the suddenness of a duck snapping at a water beetle.
Kat wrinkled her nose. “Twice,” she answered shortly. Why spoil her appetite for dinner, or the good company of these worthy gentlemen, with wretched thoughts of Fitzhugh?
“And were they happy matches?” Sir John persisted.
“Nay, my lord, they were not. I pray you, for my lady’s sake, do not mention her past husbands.” Have done with them for once and all!
“Good day, my lords, and welcome to my...oh, squealing piglets!” Miranda stood transfixed in the doorway, staring at the guests. She flushed a charming rosy hue.
Miranda looks ten years younger!
Kat hastened to her side. She clasped her cousin’s cold hand. “My lords, I present to you the Lady Katherine Fitzhugh.”
A startled look passed between the men, then, as one, they swept off their caps and bowed low.
“Leaping trout!” Miranda moaned softly. She gripped Kat’s hand like grim death.
“Does heaven weep for loneliness since you flew down to earth, sweet lady?” Sir Brandon gushed.
“Your servant, my lady,” his companion added in a brisk tone.
“Say something!” Kat hissed at her cousin.
“Welcome to Bodiam,” Miranda chirruped.
“You have said that already,” Kat whispered, guiding her transfixed cousin closer to the men. Don’t bolt, Miranda , she silently begged. Please do not give the game away just yet.
“Wa-was your journey long?” Miranda looked from one man to the other. “Which one is Sir Brandon?” she whispered to Kat out of the side of her mouth.
Kat spied a ghostly smile flit across Sir John’s lips. He must have heard Miranda’s question.
Sir John poked Sir Brandon’s rib cage with his elbow.
“I—I... fair lady, I have the honor of being the eldest son of Sir Thomas Cavendish, Earl of Thornbury. I am Sir Brandon Cavendish. I bring you the greetings and good wishes of my family and of our great king, Henry, who has made my present happiness possible.” Sir Brandon bowed low for a fourth time.
Kat winced inwardly as she watched Cavendish dive toward the floor again. Hang it all, my betrothed is full of foppery!
“Oh!” Miranda squeaked. She turned a little pale.
“Do him courtesies,” Kat prompted in Miranda’s ear. “And for the love of all that is holy, don’t faint.”
“’Tis I who am honored, Sir Brandon.” Miranda sank into a full curtsy. She remained frozen in that position.
Sir Brandon dropped to one knee before her and took her hand in his. “The honor of your fair hand is a gift I shall cherish all my days. Believe me, sweetest lady, when I tell you that I shall ever remember this moment in my heart and in my dreams.” He kissed each of Miranda’s fingers in turn.
Kat happened to glance at Sir John and caught him rolling his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling. Aye, Sir Brandon’s greeting was a bit thick—like butter oozing on a slice of hot bread—but his words certainly had quite an effect upon Miranda. Kat wondered if the two of them were going to remain kneeling in the middle of the floor for the rest of the day. Kat shot another glance at Sir John.
He acknowledged her look with a slight lowering of his eyelids. Then he cleared his throat again. Kat wondered if he was coming down with a cough. Perhaps Sondra could prepare an elixir for his sore throat.
“Permit me to introduce myself, my Lady Katherine.” Sir John arched one golden brow at the couple before him. “I am Sir John Stafford, gentleman groom of the king’s bedchamber.”
“Aye,” Miranda replied, not glancing at the speaker. She seemed to have lost herself in the depths of Sir Brandon’s blue eyes.
Get up, coz, and behave yourself. That is supposed to be my husband. Kat looked across the couple to Sir John. He shrugged his shoulders in reply. Though his motion seemed outwardly simple, he radiated a vitality that drew her like a dancing moth to a candle flames. Her heart bounced. That one was a rogue, she decided. Such an attraction would be perilous. Why couldn’t her betrothed have been Sir John? At least he didn’t talk in sugared subtleties.
. “The lady may find the noor—polished though ’tis to an enviable shine—to be a bit chill,” Sir John suggested. His golden eyebrows arched with meaning.
Kat caught herself admiring Sir John’s clean, straight jawline. She swallowed with difficulty.
“Your pardon, my lady.” Sir Brandon rose in one fluid motion, bringing Miranda up with him. “I was enraptured.”
“Has my...my cousin offered you some refreshment after your journey?” Miranda gripped Sir Brandon’s hand.
“Nay.” Sir John gazed boldly at Kat, which made her feel hot and cold at the same time. “But I am willing to take whatever refreshment she may offer.”
The very air crackled around Kat like lightning come to earth. The implication of his softly spoken words sent tingling waves of forbidden excitement crashing through her. Sir John’s eyes appeared to turn bluer as his gaze caressed her. Though the day was warm for May, a cluster of goose bumps sprouted along her arms. Angels in heaven! What was this churl insinuating? What an utterly improper, utterly rude, utterly...delicious idea! Impossible! I am fast losing my wits!
“I need no other refreshment, now that I am bathed in my lady’s eyes,” Sir Brandon murmured, drawing closer to Miranda, who, for her part, stood rooted to the floor tiles.
Kat tittered—something she had not done for almost two decades—and twisted a knot within the folds of her gown. “We do not often hear such goodly speech, as we live so far from the court.”
“I fear my friend may have overstepped his bounds at this first meeting, Mistress Miranda.” Sir John glared daggers at Sir Brandon’s back, as if to remind him of his manners. “Jack...jackanapes; Brandon! Mayhap the Lady Katherine would like to see the gift you have brought her?”
Sir Brandon dropped Miranda’s hand. “Forgive me, I pray you. I find myself most marvelously at sixes and sevens.” He drew out a red velvet pouch from inside his gold-embroidered doublet. With a brilliant smile, he held out the gift to Miranda. “For you, sweet lady, as a pledge of our betrothal.”
“You are too kind,” Miranda murmured. She almost let the bag slip between her trembling fingers. Glancing at Kat, she raised her eyebrow in question.
“Pray seat yourself, coz.” Kat pushed her toward the chair.
Clutching the bag to her breast, Miranda melted into the safety between the chair’s carved wooden arms.
“’Tis all the excitement of meeting such noble gentlemen,” Kat babbled to their guests. “It has quite overcome my lady.”
“That feeling is shared by one who desires to draw closer to her heart,” Sir Brandon replied with a flourish.
“God’s teeth!” muttered Sir John.
With shaking fingers, Miranda managed to untie the red tasseled cord and spread open the pouch. She lifted out a golden chain made up of dainty rose-shaped links. A swan, fashioned from a large freshwater pearl, its wings tipped with square-cut diamonds, dangled from a gold-and-pearl clasp at the center.
“Crickets!” Miranda gasped, holding up the jewel to catch a sunbeam.
“Sweet Saint Anne!” Kat exclaimed at the same time.
In the minstrels’ gallery, Columbine missed a note. The lute clattered to the fioor, then lapsed into silence.
“But I cannot accept such a gift as this!” Miranda’s green eyes glistened with a watery sheen as she glanced from Kat to Sir Brandon, then back to Kat.
“The necklace does not please you?” Sir Brandon shot a puzzled expression to his friend, then looked at Miranda once again. “You do not care for pearls—or swans?”
“Oh, aye, I love them both, but I...”
Kat gave Miranda’s shoulder a hard squeeze. “’Tis such a costly gift, my lord. We lead a very simple life here in the country. We do not often see the jeweler’s art at Bodiam. Indeed, I cannot recall when we last did see such a thing of beauty as your gift, Sir Brandon.”
Miranda ran a finger lightly over the pearl which made up the swan’s body. “Never,” she echoed.
“’Tis obvious. You have quite taken my lady’s breath—and her good sense—away.” Kat squeezed Miranda again.
Miranda gazed up at Sir Brandon. A warm glow bathed her face. “Trust me, my lord, when I tell you, that never before in my life has anyone given me such a gift as this. I thank you for it, and bless you for your kind thoughts. Truly, I will remember this day forever.”
“May I be so bold as to fasten it around your neck, my lady?” Sir Brandon drew near to the chair. “Such a jewel requires the proper setting, which only you can give it.”
Miranda shot a quick glance at Kat.
Say aye, Miranda, but pray, do not faint now. I do not think it wise that my betrothed should carry you up to our bedchamber.
“Do so, Sir Brandon,” Kat gushed. “I long to see it upon her.”
Sir Brandon made a great show of brushing back Miranda’s hair. Kat noticed that his fingers played across the back of Miranda’s neck as if he were strumming a lyre. Closing her eyes, Miranda sighed deeply. By the book! Her cousin was besotted already! Kat promised herself to have a lengthy and very specific talk with Miranda later on about the hazards of letting nature take its course.
“The bauble looks well upon her,” Sir John said loudly, very loudly. “Stand back, Brandon, my good friend, so that we may all enjoy the view. By my troth, my lady, I think your little musician will come near to falling over the gallery rail.”
Kat looked up to see Columbine leaning far over the side. “Columbine, attend to what you are about!”
“Your pardon, my lady,” the girl apologized, before disappearing from view once again. The lute resumed play. Kat noticed that Columbine now strummed a ballad of love.
“My thanks, Sir John. As you can see, a few pearls and a diamond or two are enough to make our world spin a giddy turn.”
Eyeing Miranda, Kat wondered if she was going to say anything more. Her cousin’s stunned silence didn’t seem to alarm Sir Brandon. He gazed upon Miranda with the most idiotic look on his face. Kat didn’t notice that Sir John had moved to her side until he spoke.
“I apologize to you, Mistress Miranda.” His voice washed over her like cooling waters on a hot day.
“Whatever for, my lord?” Kat stared very hard at the tip of her black satin slipper.
“We did not expect to find that two women of beauty and charm graced the hall of Bodiam Castle, or we would have thought to bring two such swans.”
Kat laughed nervously. She did not dare to look up into those searing blue eyes again. Sir John stood so close she could feel the heat from his body. His presence befuddled all her senses. “I...I have no need for such a fine gift as that, my Lord Stafford. As you can see, I dress plainly, and I know my station in life.” Please God forgive me for all these lies.
“As I know mine, mistress. Permit me to speak plainly. I have a brooch that I wear upon my cloak.” He opened his large hand and held out the ornament for her inspection. A flat golden rose of the familiar Tudor design nestled in his palm. “I would deem it a singular honor, if you would let it adorn your gown—in a place near to your heart.”
“Oh, Sir John!” Kat gazed up at him. He towered a full head taller than she. His teeth flashed a brilliant white, as he successfully disarmed her objections with his smile.
“Do not reject my request, Mistress Miranda. I am in no position to offer you more, though not for lack of desire,” he added, his voice dropping to a honey-warm whisper in her ear.
Her toes curled inside her slippers.
“Then I will accept your offering, my lord, and I shall wear it—as long as my name is Miranda Paige.” Kat smiled at him brightly. Unfamiliar tears pricked behind her eyelids. It must be the dust in the wainscoting.
“I fear the pin is sharp, and the clasp bent from wear,” he continued, caressing her with his seductive voice. “Shall I pin it on for you?”
Kat experienced a rushing of wind in her ears. She took a small step backward. “My thanks, Sir John, but I think I can manage the clasp myself. Perchance, one day you may do me that service—if ever I learn to know you better.” Stars above! How did that wanton suggestion pop out of her mouth? Kat bit her tongue, before it could utter anything else of a scandalous nature.
“My lady?” droned Montjoy, who had been standing at the doorway for who knew how long. “’Tis past the dinner hour, and Philippe swears that his soup will be ruined. May I have your leave to set the tables, and lay the cloth?”
“Aye!” chorused all four of the ladies and gentlemen in the hall. Afterward, each one looked at the others with astonishment. Then they burst into a wild, relieving round of laughter.
Sweet saints! Kat lamented. ’Twas only the first hour of this game, and already she was fast losing herself—to the wrong man!
Chapter Four
“Fenton lied!” With a cry that mixed together anger, surprise and despair, Miranda fell backward onto the thick mattress of the ornate canopied bed she shared with Kat.
“That is old news, indeed.” Seating herself on the window seat, Kat watched the lengthening purple shadows of twilight steal across Sondra’s herb garden below. “Fenton would gag on his own tongue if he ever told a complete truth.” She traced the golden petals of the rose brooch still pinned to her bodice.
“Sir Brandon is a far cry from a schoolboy.” Miranda sighed.
“His maturity was obvious from the first moment,” Kat replied, musing upon Sir Brandon’s companion.
What a bold look Sir John Stafford had! Never in all her days had any man gazed at Kat in quite that way. The memory of his dark blue eyes and the manner in which they had appraised her all during dinner sent prickles of a nameless desire dancing up her thighs. She squeezed her legs together. Kat couldn’t decide if she should feel complimented or insulted. As Lady Katherine Fitzhugh, she would have chided Sir John for his lack of manners. After all, she was going to be married in three weeks to Sir Brandon.
Sir Brandon Cavendish. Aye, he was another breed all together, and one Kat did not find pleasing. Too much bowing and scraping. Too many flowery speeches. She mistrusted a man who sounded as if he both dined and supped upon almond sweetmeats. A honeyed tongue might well conceal a vicious temperament. Closing her eyes, Kat rested her head against the cool plastered wall behind her. No thank you! She had had her share—and more—of that sort of husband. May Fitzhugh the Furious rot in hell!
On the other hand, as Lady Katherine’s shy “cousin,” Kat had been thrilled by Lord Stafford’s obvious attentions. What woman would not? So tall, so fine looking, and what a delightful voice—especially when he chanced to murmur something softly into her ear, such as “Please pass the salt.” Kat sighed. How was that bold piece of brass to know that all during the savory course he was mentally undressing the wrong woman?
Kat ducked her head lest Miranda see the smile that played about her lips. Really! John Stafford was too deliciously wicked by half! Kat must be on her guard around him. Oh, yes! She would watch every move he made. Kat sighed again with pleasure at the thought.
“Kat! You have not heard one word that I have said!” Miranda hurled one of the stuffed bolsters at her cousin.
Kat pulled herself back to reality and caught the pillow before it sailed out the open window. “How now, coz?”
“Aye, that is the question indeed!” Miranda pulled off her headdress, then shook out her hair. “While you were woolgathering, I asked you—several times, in fact—what are we going to do now?”
Kat knotted her brows. “Aye, a good question.”
“’Tis no point in pursuing this counterfeit any longer, Kat.” Miranda carefully lifted off the swan necklace from around her neck. The last ray of the departing sun caught itself within one of the square-cut diamonds. The jewel flashed a rare light about the room. “Tomorrow, you must confess our little game to those fine lords, and pray that they see the mirthful side of it. Here.” She held out the costly betrothal gift to Kat.
Kat blinked. So soon? But she knew nothing of Sir Brandon, save that he had a somewhat handsome face, if only he didn’t look like a sick sheep about the eyes! She must have more time in which to judge the true measure of her husband-to-be. A few hours between the late dinner and the cold supper had not been sufficient. In fact, Kat could not remember a single sensible thing that Sir Brandon had said.
Sir John, on the other hand, had praised her well-laid table, the quality of her ale, the good manners of her servants, the furnishings and appointments of the hall, the cleanliness of the stables, the size of her tilled fields, and he spiced the conversation with a few well-chosen compliments to her person—that is, to “Miranda.” One would almost believe it was Sir John Stafford who had come to claim her manor and herself.
“Heigh-ho, Kat!” Miranda swung the necklace back and forth on her fingers. “A penny for your thoughts, or would a pearly swan suffice?”
Kat shook herself, then stood up. “Keep the bauble,” she tossed over her shoulder to her cousin. She withdrew a stick of waxed candlewick from a jug on the mantel, lighted one end from the low fire on the hearth, then applied the flame to several candles around the room. A warm, golden glow pushed back the night shadows creeping into the far corners of the chamber. “Sir Brandon gave the necklace to you. He would take it amiss if I appeared wearing it.”
“But he gave it to me only because he thinks I am the Lady Katherine.” Miranda fingered the delicate links of the gold chain. “’Tis truly a beautiful gift,” she breathed.
Kat touched Sir John’s rose brooch. “Aye, you speak the truth,” she murmured. I would have you wear this close to your heart, he had said. And surely her heart nearly burst from its accustomed cage to answer aye! Kat drew in a steadying breath. What devilment had gotten into her this evening?
“Aye, ’tis beautiful, and it looks far better upon your bosom than on mine. Keep it, I say, Miranda, and let the matter rest.”
“But, Kat...”
“But me no buts, sweet coz. My mind is made up.”
Miranda cocked her head. “To what end?”
Throwing back her head, Kat laughed her first easy laugh of the day. “As to the end, I cannot say, for our game is not over yet.”
“Kat! How could you do this to Sir Brandon? He is the most handsome, kindest, sweetest-spoken man that ever has graced this castle. He will make you as fine a husband as any woman could hope for. And you make a...a mockery of his good intentions?”
Kat lifted her brows in surprise. Never before had she heard Miranda raise her gentle voice—and certainly never to her. How now? What goblin had stolen her cousin’s normal good wits? Could it be that piece of mischief who wore a blue bonnet and a red cloak? When Sir Brandon had brushed his lips across Miranda’s in a good night’s wish, what imp had he breathed into her? Miranda had all the marks of a first love about her. Kat swallowed back a small pang of envy. I wish I could feel that way about Sir Brandon myself. I need more time to grow used to him—like an eternity.
“Peace, coz.” Kat smiled at Miranda. “I mean no disrespect to my Lord Cavendish. He may be all that you say he is—and more,” she added quickly, when she saw that Miranda was about to protest again. “But let us not act in haste. Midsummer’s Day is still a few weeks away. Let us continue as we are. I must find out if there is any grain of truth to Fenton’s report of Sir Brandon’s drinking, gambling and dallying with all manner of women.”
“Fenton is a braying jackass,” Miranda stated as a matter of uncontested fact. She replaced the swan jewel around her neck, then regarded herself in the looking glass. “And you are right, Kat. This sweet bird nestles well upon me.” She sighed.
Miranda is besotted—or bewitched. I really must find her a husband-and quickly. Would that she could have mine!
“The devil take you, Jack! Wherever did you learn such sweet-toothed speeches as the ones you spouted like a water pump all afternoon?” Brandon poured himself a full goblet from the jug of burgundy that a serving wench had laid out for them in their chamber. The knights had been quartered at the top of the northeast tower overlooking the stagnant moat. Its foul odors wafted up on the evening breeze.
Brandon tossed down the tart ruby wine in one gulp. “All that treacle in one sitting went near to making me puke into my trencher.”
“Your Lady Katherine is an angel fair.” Jack threw himself into the large chair before the fire and dangled one leg over its thick wooden arm. “You should pay her more mind, instead of her cousin. After all, Lady Katherine is the one you are going to marry, you prowling tomcat. You had better not forget that fact. And pour me a cup of that before you drain the whole pitcher.”
“So my betrothed lady pleased you?” Brandon cocked one eyebrow as he handed his friend a brimming cup. “Tell me, if you can clear your palate of all that clinging honey, what is your honest opinion of my intended bride?” Brandon drank off another half cup, to wash down the unsettling word “bride.”
“As sweet a lady as ever walked upon the earth,” Jack murmured into his wine.
“Ha!” Brandon barked. “Does the devil speak the truth? Is this Sir John Stafford who instructs me in love? He, whom the whole court calls the Jack of Hearts? He that has wooed three times the number of maidens that I have ever met, and who has tumbled more women than even the great Royal Bull himself?”
Jack glared at Brandon. “You should know, my friend. We have shared a wench or two in our time.”
“Aye, but in my youth.” Brandon push aside those memories. Ever since the results of his indiscretions had come home to roost, he had been as celibate as a monk—almost. “Lay all posturing aside, Jack. What do you think of the lady?” He could not bring himself to call Katherine “wife” as yet. It stuck in the craw of his throat.
Jack regarded his companion with a serious expression. “I swear upon God’s holy book, Lady Katherine Fitzhugh is beyond peer. In a word, she is...adorable...sweet... virtuous...beguiling.”
“Those are four words, not one,” Brandon remarked. God’s teeth! What ailed the legendary Jack of Hearts? He meant what he was saying. Katherine’s relative youth had been a pleasant surprise, but “adorable” or “sweet”?
Jack ignored the interruption. “And she is far younger than we were led to believe. In faith, we need to hang Scantling up by his heels when we return to court. He has played the fool with you.”
“Aye, he did, indeed.” Brandon stared moodily into the fire. “Methinks he wears a dagger in his words.”
Jack’s eyes softened. “Looking at the Lady Katherine, ’tis hard to believe that she has ever been bedded, let alone by two husbands. You are a lucky dog, Brandon, and that is no mistake.”
“Am I?” Brandon lifted one brow slowly. He didn’t feel particularly lucky. More like trapped.
“What do you mean?”
“The Lady Katherine. She is fair, she is fine, she is reasonably young.” He gave Jack a piercing look. “She may also be a witch.”
“Go, hang! If you were not nose deep in a crock of wine, I might take you seriously, and be forced to challenge you to combat for the lady’s honor,” Jack growled in a low, dangerous tone.
Brandon leveled his gaze at his friend. “Think, not with your lusting fancy, but with that brain God saw fit to give you, man. How do we know that who we saw today was the true lady?”
“You are horn-mad,” Jack observed. “And you speak with a voice soused in wine.”
Brandon leaned toward him. “Listen to me, clodpate. Perhaps Lady Katherine has conjured up an apparition, and she puts on this pleasing look of youth and innocence, as a woman would don a gown for a feast. Perhaps she fed you a love charm in your quince sauce, and thereby hangs the tale. In truth, I have known you to take many a woman merrily, but never have you taken one seriously.”
Jack stared at him for a moment, then grinned and shrugged. “Methinks you are the one who is charmed—by too much ale at supper, and too much wine in your cup now. On the morrow, all will be well when you reveal your true identity.”
Brandon cocked his head. “How now?”
Jack snorted. “Are you deaf, as well as thickheaded, my friend? Tomorrow, at the earliest convenience, we shall beg that sweet lady’s forgiveness for the foul trick we have played upon her. You will tell her the truth of your parentage. The game is up. ’Tis too cruel by half to deceive her any further.”
Brandon poured himself another cup, but this time he merely sipped the contents. Jack was right about one thing. By tomorrow morning, Brandon’s head would be thick and pounding from too much imbibing. But fall upon his knees in front of that whey-faced milksop who could barely stammer out two sentences together? Never! At least, not until he knew her better.
Fenton was a lying cur—of that, there was no doubt. But the flap-eared knave may have woven a warp of truth amid the woof of lies. Better to marry a dishcloth than a witch, if one had to get married at all. The devil take King Henry and his damnable matchmaking! The winsome face of Katherine’s fair cousin broke through the dark clouds of his musings. Ah, Miranda! Now there was a woman to cheer a man’s soul, and body. The Lady Katherine was watered-down ale compared to the zest of the strong brew he spied beneath Miranda’s plain garb. He had caught her secret appraisals behind her thick, lowered lashes. Thick enough to fan a man’s desires into a bonfire. ’Twas a shame Miranda was not his promised bride. He would not grow bored with her to warm him.
Getting up, Brandon stretched to his fullest height. “Tomorrow, you will still be Sir Brandon, and I shall attempt to do my best at aping the manners of his good friend, Jack Stafford.”
“But...what of the ladies?” Jack gabbled.
“’Tis the ladies I think upon every waking moment. Aye, they shall probably haunt me in my sleep, as well.” Especially the one who wears my poor cloak pin upon her creamy breast. Brandon shook himself. “Cheer up, Jack. I do not pronounce a sentence of execution, but one of merriment. You delight in talking. gibberish to the Lady Katherine, who—God only knows why—takes pleasure in your ramblings. And I...” Brandon grinned widely. “I shall pursue good Mistress Miranda.”
Jack punched his friend in the arm. “Oh, aye? And play a double false face upon your wife before you’ve even married her?”
Brandon massaged his arm. “Nay, not that. But to seek out what truth lies behind Kat’s smile. Do not look so strange at me, Jackanapes. While at supper, I heard her serving wenches call her that name under their breath.”
“Mind how you call the fair lady to her face, or you’ll have me to answer for her,” Jack rumbled.
Brandon took pleasure in returning his friend’s hamfisted punch in his sword arm. “I shall record that warning in my book of memory, Jack-of-all-trades. And I shall study that page every day for sweet friendship’s sake. My word upon it.”
Jack tottered toward the bed. “How long do you plan to continue this mummery?”
“No more than three weeks,” Brandon answered in a soft undertone. “I mean to enjoy my last moments of freedom until my wedding day. After that, my fate will be sealed, come rack or ruin.”
“And a sweet good-night to you, too,” Jack replied, just before he fell face first amid the bedclothes.
Chapter Five
The arrow flew across the green velvety lawn and embedded its shaft in the red heart of the straw-filled target. Its fletching of gold and red feathers vibrated with the shock of impact.
“Bull’s-eye, Sir John! I win yet again!” Kat regarded her missile with supreme satisfaction. “I am most amazed that Sir Brandon boasted of your skill at archery, my lord, for you have yet to come within an inch of me.”
A devilish look of some secret amusement stole into the depths of Sir John’s brilliant blue eyes. Kat’s heart turned over in response.
“I fear my prowess has been much overrated, Mistress Miranda,” he murmured, a sly smile curving his lips. “Methinks I have forgotten the wager. What do I owe you this time?”
“The golden ribbon from your left sleeve, Sir John, to match the others I have already won.” Kat smiled, though her lips trembled as he drew nearer to her.
“Faith, mistress, if we continue to shoot at yon target, I shall not have a lacing left to hold my apparel together. By the rood, all my clothes will fall to your feet.” Untying the satin ribbon, he held it out to her. “You would not wish to see me so...at one with nature, would you?” he murmured as he drew closer still.
His steady gaze bore into her, daring her to answer his scandalous suggestion. The idea of him standing stark naked before her both startled and fascinated Kat. She blinked her eyes, to banish the wanton thought, then she tugged the ribbon from his hold. As their fingers touched, a dizzying current raced through her as if her blood had suddenly begun to boil. She laughed to cover her nervousness as she fumbled to tie her latest prize around her wrist.
“Perish the thought, Sir John. Our weather here is most unpredictable. You might find you’d catch a sudden chill, if you were thus exposed to our varying winds.”
Sir John took the ribbon from her shaking fingers. He tied it in a love knot over her pulse point, then bent his head and sealed the knot with a featherlight kiss. “Perchance you might find it in your heart to keep me warm?” he whispered, the gleam in his eye turning to blue flames.
Kat’s heart danced a lively galliard as his lips softly grazed her tender flesh. A hot flush stole into her cheeks. She must not faint!
“Larks and sparks, Sir John!” Kat flicked a nonexistent piece of fluff from her peach-colored sleeve. “I am not used to such fine speech as yours. Please tell me, at King Henry’s court, what do the ladies wager, if not for some article of clothing?”
Sir John chuckled as he straightened up. “His Grace is most generous with all the ladies, Mistress Miranda. In the evening after the supper has been cleared away, he gives each lady a small bag of silver coins for gaming at cards.”
Kat’s eyes widened. “His Grace is very generous. And you? Do you also wager with the king’s bounty?”
Laughing, Sir John adjusted his green velvet cap over his sleek blond hair. “Nay, innocent Miranda, I must provide my own coins.”
“Ah,” Kat said thoughtfully. This turn of the conversation offered her the opportunity to test another part of her nephew’s vivid description of her betrothed.
“And my Lord Cavendish?” She glanced over her shoulder at the other couple farther down the archery range. Her eyes narrowed. Surely Sir Brandon need not hover so close behind Miranda, as he helped her draw back her bowstring! And why was her cousin giggling in such a wanton manner? What jest had the man whispered into her ear? Or was it more than a jest? Remember, coz. he is supposed to be marrying me. The thought did not cheer Kat.
“What about my Lord Cavendish?” echoed Sir John, who also regarded the pair. His eyes darkened to a deeper blue. “He seems to find your cousin...most entertaining.”
“Aye,” Kat snapped. She turned away from the loving scene before she said or did anything to betray their mse. I really must have that serious talk with Miranda tonight, ere she finds herself bedded before I am wedded!
“We were speaking of Sir Brandon,” Sir John reminded her, clipping his words, like the gardeners clipped the hedge of yew trees.
“Aye. Sir Brandon.” Kat ran her tongue across her lips. “Tell me, does he gamble much?”
Sir John lifted one brow as he smiled down at her. “Define ‘much,’ Mistress Miranda.”
Playing with the ribbons that she had so recently won, Kat twined the satin streamers through her fingers. “Does my Lord Cavendish wager large amounts of money when he is at the card table? Forgive my boldness, Sir John, but as Katherine’s cousin, I must be concerned with her welfare. Therefore I ask you plainly. Does Sir Brandon lose much in gambling?”
Behind them, Miranda’s giggle rose half an octave, accompanied by the richer tones of Sir Brandon’s laugh. Sir John glared over Kat’s head at the two. “Sir Brandon may lose his shirt and the skin under it, if he does not take more care in the future,” he muttered, more to himself than to Kat. His darker mood passed when he glanced down at her again. “But in answer to your question, Sir Brandon is an excellent player of all manner of games.” He leaned closer to her. “And, Mistress Miranda, I speak from very close association.”
His warm breath, mint scented, fanned her face. Another wave of giddiness swept over Kat. It must be the weather. Perchance the wind bore some strange pollen to make one feel giddy in the middle of the afternoon.
“Just so,” she murmured. Mayhap she needed a tonic. She must speak to Sondra about that later. “And you swear that my cousin need not fear that Sir Brandon will spend her fortune at cards and other wagers?”
Sir John placed his hand over his breast. “Upon my heart and soul, I do swear...for him, that is. My...friend comes from a wealthy family in Northumberland, and he is well provided. Cards do not hold him in their thrall, as they do many others—such as your cousin’s knavish nephew.”
Kat cocked her head. “How now? I...and my cousin have not heard this tale before. Pray, enlighten me, Sir John.”
Another giggle pierced the warm afternoon. Sir John curled his lips in disgust. “Let us walk the garden paths, Mistress Miranda. I fear that so much billing and cooing between yon lovebirds is very distracting to my thoughts.” He offered her his arm.
“Gladly, Sir John.” Kat slipped her hand around his elbow. Under his green velvet sleeve, she felt the strength of his muscles. For a moment, she imagined herself enfolded in his strong embrace. Her mouth went suddenly dry.
They passed through an opening of the yew hedge into the intricate knot garden. The crushed shells of the pathways crunched under their feet as they paced out the geometric design of the trimmed boxwood plantings.
“You spoke of Fen...young Sir Scantling, my lord?” Kat prompted, after the archery range was out of sight and sound.
“Aye, mistress. Pardon my bluntness, but he is an asshead.”
Sir John’s muscles tightened a little under Kat’s fingertips. She wondered what the young fool had done to incur the wrath of so noble a lord as Sir John.
“You may speak plainly with me, my lord. I am not being wooed for my wedding day.” Not yet, thank God!
“You should be,” Sir John muttered under his breath. Then he cleared his throat and continued in a louder tone. “Scantling plays nightly at cards, dice or any other wager the courtiers might devise. Once he even bet upon the outcome of a louse race!”
Kat missed a step. Sir John’s hand steadied her. “By the book! Do you speak of a race between bugs?” she gasped.
Sir John’s lips twitched, and his eyes twinkled azure fire. “Aye, I do. And he lost even that one! He has the most rotten luck, and poorest judgment in the entire court. Your cousin is obviously not aware of it, Mistress Miranda, but she has been taken out of pocket for a great deal of money by that king of shreds and patches. Gambling is a sickness with him, and one that he will not throw off. He will beggar Lady Katherine’s entire estate within a twelvemonth, unless I can...” Sir John pressed his lips into a thin, hard line.
Kat gripped his sleeve, bunching the rich material between her fingers. She found it extremely difficult to make disinterested conversation. God shield her! What a dithering fool she had been! How Fenton must have laughed each time she sent him yet another letter of credit to her goldsmith on London Bridge!
“Mistress Miranda?” Sir John murmured in her ear. “You have turned quite pale. Forgive me for being the bearer of bad tidings.”
Kat shook her head. “Nay, Sir John, have no fear on my account. You do not know it, but you have done me a good service. I am in your debt. ’Tis better that you tell me of Fenton’s perfidy, than to tell my cousin. She is a gentle creature, and would likely faint at the news.” Kat looked up into Sir John’s eyes, warmed by the depths of concern she saw there. “I am made of sterner stuff.”
“So I perceive, sweet Miranda.” He leaned over her, blotting out the late afternoon sun. “And I salute you for it.”
Brushing his lips against hers, he took her wholly by surprise. His kiss imparted a velvet warmth that left her mouth burning and her body quivering for more.
“Sir John,” she murmured, standing on tiptoe.
“Aye,” he growled. His lips nibbled her earlobe. “‘Tis a name I wear like a hat on a holiday, but ’twill suffice for now. Let me drink from you again, and we’ll take tomorrow when it comes.”
“Aye.” She sighed as his large hand cupped her face, holding it gently. His touch was almost unbearable in its tenderness. Not once in thirteen years of marriage had she ever been caressed like this. Closing her eyes and parting her lips, she rose to meet him.
His mouth recaptured hers, his kiss more demanding this time. His tongue traced the soft fullness of her lips, then grew bolder as it explored the recesses of her mouth. Gathering her in his arms, he held her close, gently rocking her back and forth as he deepened his kiss. Kat drank in the sweetness of his mouth with a reckless abandon she had never known before. Bright colored stars danced behind her closed eyelids. She tried to remember to breathe.
Brushing her lower lip, Sir John slowly released his hold upon her. Kat shivered as his warmth left her.
“I am fortune’s biggest fool, sweet Miranda. Pray, pardon me.” Turning on his heel, he left her standing in the middle of the path.
Squinting into the lowering sun, Kat watched his tall figure striding toward the stables. She touched the place his teeth had grazed her skin. By our larkin! What folly had she done? Her breathing slowly returned to normal, though she did not yet trust her knees to carry her back to her chambers. The memory of his kiss burned on her lips.
“Nay, Sir John, you are not the greatest fool in Bodiam today,” she whispered. “I claim that title for myself alone.”
Let tomorrow come! My betrothed may kiss like a candied carrot, but this moment with Sir John will remain mine forever.
“On such an evening as this, one might spy Cupid disguised as a firefly, flitting among your flowers, fair Katherine.” Sir Brandon gave his lady’s hand a little squeeze as he helped her settle herself on one of the stone benches in the far corner of the garden.
Miranda trembled at the sound of his rich, mellow voice. He smelled of mint, wood smoke and some other scent that was his alone. The combination made her feel quite giddy. “Perchance Cupid will attend the wedding day.” Placing her hand over her breast, she closed her fingers around the swan pendant. She clutched it as if it were a talisman.
“I...I thank you again for this lovely gift, Sir Brandon. Ka...that is, my cousin teases me much, and says that she thinks I even sleep with it at night.”
“Would that I could sleep with you at night.” Sir Brandon’s lips hovered dangerously close.
Miranda licked her own lips, which felt as parched and cracked as empty wineskins. “In due time, my lord, in due time. I am an honest woman, and would wait until after the wedding vows are spoken before any bedding is done.”
Sir Brandon pulled himself upright, though his arm still held her waist. “You speak the truth, dear lady, and remind me of my manners. I fear I have become too lax at court. Pray forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, my lord. I am glad to see that the bridegroom is so eager for the wedding day.”
“He’d better be,” Sir Brandon growled under his breath.
His changed tone jarred Miranda. “My lord?”
“Nothing, my love. ’Tis but a vow I have made. On your wedding day, your bridegroom will be all that you deserve—and more.” He caressed her cheek with his forefinger, then brushed a stray tendril of her hair from her forehead.
A light crunching sound on the shell path interrupted further conversation and action. Violet, one of the chambermaids, dashed up to them, and bobbed a curtsy.
“Mistress...my Lady Kat,” she babbled. “My...your cousin suggests that the air has grown too cold for dallying in the garden, and she prays that you join her and my Lord Stafford by the fire in the hall.” The girl paused for breath. “Are you dallying, mistress?”
Sir Brandon stood up and stretched. His height towered over the young maid. “Not anymore.” His teeth flashed white in the rising moon’s light. He offered Miranda his arm. “Shall we join your vigilant cousin, my lady?”
Standing, Miranda brushed down her lavender skirts. “Aye, methinks ’twould be a good idea. Thank you, Violet. Tell my cousin that we are coming.”
The girl curtsied again, winked at Miranda, then ran off into the shadows giggling like a magpie.
Sir Brandon’s lips twitched. “Sweet Katherine, is there some malady that effects your servants?”
Miranda slipped her arm within his. “How so, my lord?” Together they strolled slowly down the path in Violet’s scampering wake.
Sir Brandon rubbed his chin before answering. “Ever since our arrival at your home, all your maids have taken to winking, giggling and giving each other sly looks and elbow prods. Tell me, are my face and form worthy of their mirth?”
Night’s welcome darkness hid Miranda’s grin. “Nay, my lord. I suspect ’tis because we have so few men around here. When you and my Lord Stafford arrived, accompanied by such a handsome army of retainers, our maids did not know what to do. Please forgive their behavior. They are simple country girls at heart.”
Sir Brandon unlatched the wicket gate in the yew hedge and held it open for Miranda to pass through. “That brings me to another question, sweet lady. I have noticed that all your maidservants have the names of flowers. Daisy, Pansy, Rosemary, and now, this one is Violet. Pray how is this so? Were all their mothers gardeners?”
Miranda couldn’t control her sudden burst of laughter. “I am sure you must find it puzzling, my lord. Nay, originally they were called Mary, Anne or Margaret. ’Tis understandable when you know that the three parishes hereabouts are Saint Mary, Saint Anne and Saint Margaret.”
“I see,” Sir Brandon said, but in such a manner that Miranda realized he was as confused as before.
“When Fitzhugh died, my cousin dismissed all his retainers. Instead, she took in as servants many daughters of the poor farmers in the area.”
Pausing midstep, Sir Brandon looked down at her. “You say your cousin did this? Not you?”
“I...” Miranda could have bitten her tongue in two. “My cousin has acted as my housekeeper for many years, Sir Brandon. She knows much better than I how to run the estate, so I am pleased to let her do it ’Twas her idea to rename the girls for all the flowers of the garden, instead of calling them Mary One or Mary Two. Much less confusing.”
Sir Brandon resumed their stroll. Miranda breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving. How could she keep her wits about her, when every time the handsome lord looked at her, she wanted to melt into a puddle at his feet?
He coughed, then cleared his throat. “I do not mean to distress you, especially on such a sweet evening as this, my love, but since you mentioned it, how did your late husband expire? I am told ’twas sudden.”
Miranda gritted her teeth at the loathsome memory of Fitzhugh the Furious and his last moments on earth. “The doctor said ’twas a stroke in his brain that caused it, my lord. He died in the midst of beating my cousin.”
Sir Brandon stopped so suddenly that Miranda bumped into him. He caught her around the waist, then drew her closer. “He struck your gentle cousin?” His voice rose with a fury she had not heard before.
Squaring her shoulders, Miranda looked him straight in the eye. Kat hated to recall Fitzhugh, and with good reason, but Sir Brandon should know what a hell her life had been during her second marriage. Perhaps he would treat Kat with the loving kindness she deserved.
“Aye, ’twas his custom. Sometimes he used a belt, sometimes a small whip of leather thongs, sometimes merely his hand. It pleased him in some devilish perverse way to hear her cry, and to see her bleed.”
“God have mercy,” Sir Brandon whispered. “Why didn’t you stop him? You were his wife!”
Miranda hung her head. The memory of her hiding in the stable loft or under beds was a shameful one. She answered in a barely audible voice. “Fitzhugh treated his wife as shamefully as he did his servants. No one dared to interfere with the master of the house. ‘Twas a sweet relief when he went to court for a month or two. ’Twas paradise on earth when he died. I fear no tears were shed at his funeral.”
Enfolding Miranda in his embrace, Sir Brandon hugged her with a fierce possessiveness. “Sweet Jesu!”
She reveled in the moment of such overpowering love, then she placed her palms against his chest and looked up at him. “There is one boon that I beg you, Sir Brandon.”
“Name it. ’Tis yours for the asking,” he replied in a husky tone.
“When you are married, I beg you to promise me that you will never raise your hand to your wife, and to treat her kindly every day. Please. Swear to me this vow.”
Sir Brandon took one of her hands in his. “Upon my soul’s hope for eternal salvation, I swear to you that Sir Brandon Cavendish will never touch his most precious wife except with gentle love.”
Closing her eyes, Miranda sighed with relief. “I am in your debt, my lord. You do not know how happy you have made me.”
“And I would make you happier, if it were in my power.”
He bent his head to kiss her, but Miranda perceived his intent and stepped out of his embrace. If she let him kiss her now, she might not be able to hold back.
Hugging her arms, she shivered. “The night grows colder, my lord. Let us hurry indoors.”
Sir Brandon nodded, then tucked her arm around his again. “You speak with great wisdom, my lady,” he muttered.
As they mounted the low steps to the garden door of the castle, Miranda turned to him. “One final request, Sir Brandon. I beg you not to speak of this matter to my cousin. Even now, the memory of that terrible time grieves her.”
Cavendish placed his hand over hers. “You have my bond and my oath upon that, my lady. I shall not speak a word of it—to her.”
Chapter Six
“He beat Miranda?” Brandon slammed his fist against the chimney flue in the guest chamber. The rough stone scored his flesh, but Brandon barely noticed the pain.
“Aye, both of them, and often. Lady Katherine was loath to speak of it.” Jack poured his friend a cup of wine. “Drink some of this. ’Twill take the taste of gall from your tongue.”
“That vile, creeping, venomous viper dared to lay his hand on that sweet lady?” Brandon snatched the cup, then tossed back the contents in a single loud gulp. The roughness of the unwatered wine made tears spring to the corners of his eyes.
“On both ladies, my friend,” Jack reminded him in a chiding tone. He poured Brandon another drink.
“I remember that villainous toad at court.” Brandon’s lips curled like a snarling dog’s.
“And I, as well. A barrel-chested bruiser—blustery, shouting the rafters down, and always red in the face.” Jack yanked off one boot, then the other in preparation for bed.
“A poor sport in the tiltyard, and hard on his squires.” Brandon rubbed his forefinger across his upper lip.
And while her husband sported at court, his poor Katherine and sweet Miranda cowered within the cold walls of Bodiam, waiting in terror for the master’s return. The thought of them under the hands of that barbarous brute made Brandon shake with anger.
“Did no one try to protect them?” Turning away from the fire, Brandon stared at Jack.
Meeting Brandon’s look, Jack returned its intensity. “Who could? That laughable chamberlain, Montjoy? Too old. The paltry men-at-arms? Too cowardly. The cook? The maids? The potboy? Who would dare challenge their lord in his own household?”
“What about Lady’s Katherine’s most loving nephew, Fenton?” Brandon sneered. He already knew the answer to that one.
“Katherine told me he was Fitzhugh’s willing pupil. That sniveling malt worm knew where his future lay, and ’twas not with his aunt.” Jack flung his other boot against the far wall. “Of course, things changed the moment Fitzhugh dropped dead.”
Brandon released a long breath. “At least, we know that Lady Katherine didn’t poison her last husband. God’s teeth, Jack! I wouldn’t have blamed her one whit if she had!”
Jack untied his sleeves. “That slandered lady is blameless of the first one’s death, as well. I asked her chambermaid. Lewknor was in his eighties when he married Katherine. She was but fifteen at the time.”
“A pox of wrinkles! What was her father thinking to shackle her to a dithering graybeard?” For the first time in nine days, Brandon gave a caring thought toward his intended bride.
“Lewknor’s fortune.” Jack peeled off his brown velvet jacket, then tossed it onto the nearby chest. “Bodiam was originally Lewknor’s castle. The old man didn’t want a bride, he wanted a nursemaid. It took him eighteen months to finally cough his last.”
“Leaving a rich, young widow.” Brandon resumed his contemplation of the fire.
“Aye, and an avaricious father. Katherine was wed again before the turning of the year. For all his monstrous ways, Fitzhugh had a vast fortune in land and tenants in this shire. My congratulations, Cavendish. You are marrying a beautiful lady, who owns most of Sussex. ’Tis time you gave some thought to her.”
Brandon glared over his shoulder at Jack. “What do you mean by that last remark?” he growled.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “’Tis high time you pay court to your future wife. In the past week you have barely spoken to her save for courtesy.”
Brandon tightened his fingers around his wine cup. “’Tis because I cannot get a word in edgewise with you singing, jabbering or composing rhymes to her,” he muttered.
Jack hurled one of his stockings at Brandon. The smelly article hit him on the back of the neck. “I have been speaking and singing for you, you hedgepig. Remember? I have been wooing that innocent lady in your stead, while you go prancing off behind hedges with her comely cousin. ’Tis time to bring this charade to an end.”
“Before you fall in love with Lady Katherine yourself?” Brandon asked softly, not looking at Jack. He didn’t need to.
The fire crackled in the silence.
“How I feel is mine own affair,” Jack finally replied. He climbed into the wide, canopied bed they shared and slipped between the sheets. “Look to yourself, Brandon. Katherine has been sorely used by her first two husbands. She does not deserve that fate a third time. In fact, I gave her my oath, in your name, that you would not.”
Brandon spun around. “The devil take you, Stafford! I would never hurt her, no matter what. You should know that!”
“Not with your hands, no, but what about your heart?” he asked from the depths of the bed. “And what about your children? When do you plan to surprise her with them? Think on that.”
“Aye, I will.” Brandon set the cup down on a stool, then pulled his heavy wool cloak from the peg.
Jack hitched himself up on his elbows. “How now, man? You need not go wake her, and tell her your secrets this minute. Tomorrow will suffice. She’ll need a good night’s sleep, before you reveal who you really are, then spring two nine-year-olds upon her.”
“I will tell her about Belle and Francis in my own good time, and ’twill not be at breakfast—on that you may lay a winning wager.” Brandon fumbled for his golden brooch that held the cloak together, then swore under his breath when he recalled where it had gone.
Jack’s frown penetrated the chamber’s semidarkness. “Where are you going? ’Tis near midnight.”
“To the devil, for I am in hell already.” He flung open the door.
Jack flopped back against the pillows. “Give him my regards, and don’t fall off the wall walk. ’Twould be a nasty swim in that stinking moat. I bid you a pleasant evening’s stroll.”
“You were begot between two fishmongers!”
“And shut the door behind you. The draft is bone chilling.”
Brandon slammed it with a resounding thud.
The night guard on the northern battlements gave a startled nod as Brandon stalked past him. The half-moon hung in the dark bowl of the night, and an errant cloud teased about the diamond points of a thousand sparkling stars. Brandon drew to a halt at the center of the walkway, directly over the giant winches that raised and lowered the portcullis. Resting his arms on the chest-high wall, he stared unseeing at the black silhouette of the home park forest.
I am a very knave and my lying tongue will double back upon itself, and choke me. Aye, and a good riddance too! Brandon gnawed his inner cheek. What a hell broth he had brewed by this simple-seeming deceit! Hadn’t his good mother told him that liars are always trapped within the web of their own making? Now he strangled in it.
What was he going to do? Jack was not the only one who had lost his heart where he least expected. Jack still had an ounce of his wit about him. For himself, Brandon had refused to mark each passing day as one closer to his wedding. Instead, he pretended he was on a straw-hatted holiday in the company of too-fair a maiden.
Kinswoman to my new wife! What a lack-witted dolt I am! I do not have half as much brains as earwax! And what will I do after I am married to Katherine, when I must face each new day with Miranda’s shining presence on my left hand? Come, hot tongs and cruel spikes, sear me for I am on the rack now.
Miranda! Her image swam up in his mind’s eye. Just today he noted how the early June sunlight caught the many different shades of red and gold in her hair, creating a vision most pleasing to the eye. How could he bed the shyer cousin, and not dream that it was Miranda he held in his arms in the dark of night? His marriage vows would be a lie, even worse than the one he was living now.
Nay, for the sake of his soul, and for the loyalty his honor compelled him to give to Katherine, he must send away the tempting cousin as soon as the wedding feast was over. Jack could take her back to Henry’s court. Miranda would have no dearth of suitors there within a fortnight. Brandon gritted his teeth. The court—where far too many hot-blooded men had far too much time on their hands. Where Miranda’s good virtue would not last a month. The bored nobles needed a good war to occupy their lusty minds.
Send Miranda to a nunnery? Brandon grimaced in the dark. God help the abbess who had her for a novice! Nay, the lady was as unlikely for the nunnery as his brother was to become a monk—which, thanks to a French angel named Celeste, he hadn’t. But the nut and core of the argument still remained. Miranda must go. As her new kinsman, the most honorable thing he could do would be to set her up at court with a goodly dowry. ’Twould be for the best that she marry.
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