Midsummer's Knight. Tori Phillips
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