Midsummer's Knight. Tori Phillips
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