Tori Phillips Page 6

  “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 s
peak 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.”