Tori Phillips (11 page)

Kat wrinkled her nose. “The damask would be heavy for this season of the year.”

Sondra winked at her. “Mayhap, but you could wear fewer petticoats underneath it. I am sure your noble lord would not mind having less to peel away.”

Kat swallowed. The vision of Sir John—no, Sir Brandon—untying the laces of her shimmering gold and white gown swam through her imagination. “Is there enough material for two gowns, exactly alike?”

“Aye. What new mischief do you plot now, Lady Kat?”

“And have we veiling thick enough to hide my features, if I wore it over my face?”

“We do.” Sondra arched one brow.

“Then here is my device. Come my wedding day, both Miranda and I will be garbed and veiled exactly alike, so that none can tell the difference. We shall not unveil, until after the vows have been exchanged.”

“Even if the noble lords have confessed all?”

Kat nodded with a smug expression. “Aye. Miranda and I will play our parts to the very end, and my cunning, crafty, double-dealing Lord Cavendish will not know whom he has married, until the sticking point. That should teach him that I can play his game as well as he—and beat him at it.”

“And Miranda?”

“She will never confess our disguising on her own, for she is tried and true to me. She will play my part, willingly or not. But, let us hope, Sondra, that, for good Miranda’s sake, my Lord Cavendish does not sound the retreat too soon. I think I shall much enjoy watching him spin around in this whirlwind of his own creation.”

Stretching his feet out under the table, Brandon tried to concentrate on the chessboard before him. His mind was hardly on the game. He took a long swallow of his warm spiced wine. Considering the past twelve hours, he was forced to admit that this was one of the worst days of his life.

Despite his honorable intentions to do right by his bride to-be, things had gone wrong from the start—beginning with the hurt expression on sweet Miranda’s face, when he had offered his arm to Katherine and had escorted her out of the hall. He knew that Miranda’s look of reproach would rise up and haunt him in the dark of night for years to come. All for the sake of honor. Honor be damned!

And what had he gained for his sacrifice and Miranda’s pain? Absolutely nothing.

Brandon cast a sideways glance at Jack and Katherine, who sat on the cushioned seat below the huge triple-light window of the great hall. Outside, a summer tempest raged, casting jagged streaks of lightning to the earth. Thunder rolled across the soaking fields like cannon fire. The fury of the weather went unnoticed by the pair, who enjoyed a private game of cards. Katherine’s laughter floated over the slash of the rain against the diamond-cut panes of window glass. Jack—the churl—whispered yet another compliment to her, judging from the blush on her cheeks.

This morning, when Brandon had offered his assistance at the mounting block, Katherine had turned to Jack and had given him her hand to help her into her saddle. During that tiresome ride, Katherine insisted on staying by Jack instead of riding next to Brandon, no matter how often Jack obligingly dropped back. When they dismounted to look across a field of ripening hops, ‘twas Jack she asked to help her down. And Jack helped her up again, when ’twas time to return for dinner. Brandon could have been out alone with his falcon for all the good it had done him.

Who was Katherine to be so choosy of her companion? A simpering, giggling, pale-faced ninny, who had not more than an ounce of sense in her brain. When she opened her mouth, which was not often, her speech was that of a girlish maiden and not of a woman brought twice to the marriage bed. No wonder she relied on Miranda so much! Without her steady, intelligent cousin to oversee the running of the household, Bodiam would have been in a state of complete shambles by now. How would Katherine survive without Miranda to help her? How would he?

“’Tis your move, my lord, and has been this past quarter hour.” Miranda nudged his foot with her toe. “Have you gone to sleep, or are you merely trying to find a way of saving your bishop’s pawn?”

Brandon blinked, then pulled himself up straighter in the chair. “Your pardon, mistress. I was woolgathering.”

He avoided looking into the green eyes that sparkled a challenge to him from the other side of the chessboard. He knew, if he gazed into those orbs of flashing fire, he would be lost—all his fine intentions blown out the window. He must maintain his control and his honor. Be courteous but not familiar with Miranda.

Brandon shot another glance at the pair on the window seat. Blast Katherine! She had turned him down as flat as a griddle cake, when he had suggested a game of chess after supper. She had even acted insulted at his offer of his company. She preferred Jack, the grinning ape, who merely shrugged at Brandon, then engaged the lady with his own wit and wiles.
What does she think I am---a squawking crow?

“By the stars, Sir John!” Miranda blew a wisp of her auburn hair out of her eyes as she bent over the board. “You have already lost three pawns and a knight to me. What’s one pawn more?”

Brandon sent her a quick glance from under his hooded lids. He drew in a small breath. How utterly delectable she looked with the candlelight playing the wanton with her hair, turning it into a riot of reds and golds. Gritting his teeth, he moved his bishop one place on the diagonal

Miranda’s eyes widened. “By the book! You’ve opened your queen to my attack! In faith, I will not let you take your move back, Sir John. I mean to win this game.” She swooped her castle deep into his side of the board.

’Tis no matter. I am lost to you already, sweet minx. Take my queen, my bishop, my heart. I am a condemned man.

“My mind dwells upon other things,” Brandon murmured. He hardened his voice with a deliberate ruthlessness, then pointedly stared at Katherine.

Miranda followed the direction of his look. “Oh? The wind blows in that direction now, does it?” She smiled with a perverse pleasure. “Does my cousin please you, Sir John? Do you think she will make Sir Brandon a good wife?”

“She will make him—” Brandon caught himself before his true thoughts slipped out “—a wealthy man,” he finished. He sought solace in his wine cup.

“Indeed?” Miranda regarded him with a smug expression playing about her full, luscious lips. “Methought my Lord Cavendish was heir to a large estate in the north.”

“He is,” Brandon snapped, staring at the bottom of his empty cup. “But a man can never be too rich.” Weep, my
good mother, for the lies I must weave for blasted honor’s sake.

Miranda lifted the jug beside her, and poured them both more of the sweetened drink. “And do you think my cousin will make Sir Brandon a happy man?”

She will render me stark, staring mad within twelve months.
Aloud, Brandon replied, “I am no soothsayer, mistress. I have no idea what their marriage will be like. Only time will tell.”

“Just so, my lord.” Removing her coif, Miranda shook her head. A tumbling waterfall of red-gold cascaded over her shoulders. “Your pardon, Sir John, but this coif pinches, and I am beginning to get a headache. Your move, I believe.” Her eyes glittered.

Knotting his hand into a fist under the table, Brandon dug his nails deep into his palms. His move?
Don’t ask me what I would move to do, delectable chit. ’Tis a wonder I don’t sweep this table clear of the pieces, and lay you down right here.
Why couldn’t she keep her hair covered like every other respectable spinster? His fingers itched to comb through those tresses that dangled so enticingly near.

With a low groan, Brandon pushed back his chair and rose abruptly. “Pray excuse me, Mistress Miranda. I must attend an urgent call of nature.”

She smiled up at him. “Then you have my leave. But hurry back, my lord, before your strategy grows cold.”

“Never fear on that score, mistress,” he growled. “My thoughts are always hot. Indeed, they burn me up.” Turning quickly, he strode out of the hall toward the nearest garderobe. Her laughter followed him, echoing down the corridor.

Wrapped in his own dark brooding, Brandon failed to see Montjoy until he bumped headlong into him. The old man stumbled backward, and would have fallen, had not Brandon caught him in time.

“Your pardon, steward,” Brandon apologized. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

Montjoy drew himself up to the top of his frail height. “The passage is dark, my lord.”

“Aye, but not enough to warrant my blindness. Are you well?”

Montjoy sniffed. “I am never fully well in my joints, my lord, especially on such a vile night as this.” He sighed deeply. “’Tis a cross I must bear alone.”

Brandon hid his grin behind his hand. The castle servants called the poor man, Melancholy Montjoy, and, unfortunately, the name was most appropriate.

“To save your steps, and the pain in your joints, is there some office I can perform for you?” Once he was lord of Bodiam, Brandon decided he would settle Montjoy in dignified retirement.

The steward bowed gravely. “I am unworthy of your kind attention, my lord. However, if it is not too much trouble, would you inform my mistress that Sir Fenton Scantling has arrived?”

The shock of Montjoy’s announcement hit Brandon with the force of a mailed fist in his gut. “Scantling? Here? Now?”

Montjoy’s heavy lids flickered. “You know my Lord Scantling?”

“Aye, at court.” Brandon glanced over his shoulder into the hall. No one seemed to have heard Montjoy. “Where is Fenton now?”

“In the antechamber, my lord. He is much covered with mud and the filth of the road, and...”

At that moment, the subject in question appeared at the top of the entry stairs. Scantling’s long cloak ran with rainwater, creating a series of puddles as he advanced.

“There you are, you malmsey-nosed knave!” Scantling strode up to Montjoy. “The devil and his dam take you for leaving me in that bunghole to shiver myself into a chill.”

“I thought to inform your aunt—”

“I will tell my aunt what she needs to know. You attend to my needs this minute, old man.” Fenton snapped his fingers. “A bath, fresh dry garments, a hot supper and—”

Stepping between the pair, Brandon glared down at his nephew-to-be. The rain had plastered Fenton’s hat to his head, giving the young man the unappealing appearance of a drowned rat.

“A good master is known by the way he treats his servants, Scantling,” Brandon remarked with cold contempt in his voice. To Montjoy, he added, “Prepare my lord’s room, Montjoy, and he shall be there presently, after his aunt has put a flea or two in his ear.”

“You overstep your bounds, my lord,” Fenton bristled. Brandon gripped his arm and flung him against the wall. Scantling gasped. “Does my aunt know of your roughshod ways?”

“I ought to tear out your lying tongue and give it to the dogs for their breakfast, you sniveling vermin! Why did you tell me that your aunt was an old crone and a witch? Look you!” He stepped aside, so that Fenton could see into the lighted hall. “Does that good lady look like either one to you now?”

Scantling narrowed his eyes at Brandon. “Nay, she looks more like a wanton jade, with her hair all in her face like that.”

About to defend Katherine against Fenton’s slander, Brandon halted before he spoke. He stared again into the hall. Katherine and Jack still played at their card game. Though she leaned her head closer to Jack’s, Brandon could see that her headdress was still firmly in place. On the other hand, Miranda sat back in her chair with her eyes closed, idly running her fingers through her bare, loosened tresses.

“Though why Aunt Kat is wearing one of Miranda’s dresses, I can’t begin to guess,” Scantling continued with a sneer. “Perchance, she hopes you will think she is a poor widow. Be advised, my lord. My aunt is truly a conniving shrew.”

A small nerve jangled in Brandon’s temple. He licked his dry lips. “Your aunt looks pleasing in her cousin’s dress. It becomes her figure right well. I asked that she wear it especially for me.” God’s nightshirt! Had Brandon been served up in his own juices? Who had hoodwinked whom?

Fenton’s lips curled. “You are much besotted then, my lord. You do not know my aunt’s true colors.”

“For once you speak the truth, Scantling. Fear not, for I will unmask her ere I wed her. On that, you have my promise.” Brandon stared at Miranda—or was it Katherine—basking in the firelight.

“And take a hellcat into your bed?”

Closing his hand around Scantling’s throat, Brandon banged the varlet’s head against the stone wall of the passageway. “Be mindful of that tongue of yours, Scantling. The dogs are hungry. Now get to your chamber, for your greensick face offends my eyes. I will tell the lady of your arrival. I am sure the news will bring her much good cheer.”

Brandon released Scantling. The youth pulled away from him, as if Brandon harbored the plague. Without another word to either the knight or the hovering Montjoy, Fenton stamped up the stairs to the bedchambers. His wide-eyed servant scampered close behind with a bulging saddlebag over each arm.

Brandon spied Montjoy easing down the hallway toward the kitchen. “Worthy steward, a word with you.”

Montjoy’s eyelids blinked several times in rapid succession. “My...my lord?”

Brandon dropped an arm around the old man’s thin shoulders. “Montjoy, I know you are an honest man.”

“As God in heaven is my witness, my lord.”

“Falsehood is your sworn enemy, no doubt?”

“A-aye, my lord.” Montjoy’s lips trembled.

Brandon tightened his grip. “So tell me the truth, as God in his heaven is your witness, Montjoy. Is yon lady in the plain green gown and without her headdress—the lady who is beating me in chess—is she, in sworn truth—your mistress, Lady Katherine Fitzhugh?”

Montjoy wavered for an instant, then drawing himself up, he stared squarely at Brandon. “She has always been so, my lord. Do you require anything else?”

Chapter Eight

“M
y Lord Scantling has arrived, my lady,” Columbine whispered into Kat’s ear.

Kat bolted upright in her chair. Fenton would give the game away, unless he thought it would be worth his while to keep quiet. Thank heavens, John—nay, Brandon—was still out of the hall. “He’s here? At Bodiam?”