Читать книгу Midsummer's Knight - Tori Phillips - Страница 12

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.