Tori Phillips (15 page)

“I was already awake, and have listened to you sigh and weep. Come, tell me. Methinks ’tis not a headache that plagues you so.”

Miranda rolled onto her back, and stared up at the dark, wine red canopy above the bed. “Oh, Kat, I am at sixes and sevens, and know not what to do.”

Kat chuckled. “Ah, ’tis Brandon who banishes your sleep.”

Miranda’s cheeks flamed. “Never! Why on earth should I think upon your bridegroom?”

“Because you have been in his company night and day for over a fortnight. Because I have never heard you laugh so much, nor seen so many of your smiles and blushes as I have in recent times. Because you sing at dawn when you’ve spied on him. Because—”

“Peace, Kat! You prattle like a child,” Miranda snapped.

“Oh, aye?” Kat sat up, pulling the covers with her. “Then let us have a serious conference, Miranda, for I am much concerned with your welfare.”

Miranda closed her eyes, wishing she could close her ears as well. Kat had always had Miranda’s welfare at heart. Throughout the horrible years of Fitzhugh’s domination, Kat had protected Miranda, fed her, clothed her, schooled her and was Miranda’s best friend in the world. How dare she return such devotion by desiring her cousin’s handsome husband-to-be? Kat deserved the chance for a good marriage. But why did it have to be to this man?

’Tis not fair!
a niggling voice whined in the recesses of her mind. Miranda squeezed her eyelids tighter to hold back a hovering tear of self-pity.

Kat gently shook her. “Miranda? Let us talk. I promise you, all will be well in time. What is it about Brandon Cavendish that particularly distresses you?”

With yet another sigh, Miranda pulled herself upright. “Nothing distresses me about him. He is peerless among men. ’Tis you who give me no rest at night”

“Aye? How so?”

“You have not spent one private moment in his company. You barely look upon him, let alone engage him in conversation. How long do you intend to keep up this deceit?”

“Till Midsummer’s Day,” Kat replied in a cheerful tone.

Miranda gasped. “The poor man! What is he to think when you present yourself to him at the church door?”

Kat laughed lightly. “They do say that midsummer brings a certain madness with it.”

“’Tis not the magic of midsummer that infects Bodiam with lunacy, but you, Kat! This false face you have made me wear will cause me to loose my wits long before the wedding day ever comes.” Miranda gave a small sob despite her efforts to stifle it. “And I am too young to go mad.”

Putting her arm around Miranda’s shoulders, Kat pulled her closer. “Have no fear, gentle cousin. You will not rue this time, I swear it to you. All will be well that ends well.”

“How?” Miranda sniffed.

“What do you think of Sir John?” Kat asked, after a pause.

Miranda stiffened. “Is this your device? To marry me off to that...that bluff rascal? I’d rather retire to a nunnery!”

Kat laughed softly. “So, my Lord Stafford does not stand high in your estimation?”

Emboldened by Kat’s apparent lack of anger, Miranda continued. “Nay. He does not sing well, nor write poetry. Granted, he is a handsome brute to look at, but methinks Sir John lacks a certain grace that Sir Brandon is blessed with in abundance.”

“And you think these attributes are important in a good husband?”

Miranda sighed deeply. “Aye, I do!”

Kat hugged her. “Well, harken to this, dearest coz. I do not like the man who courts you, for all his pretty ways. If, by magic, mystery or mayhem, I could leave him to you on Midsummer’s Day, would you take him?”

Miranda could scarcely believe her ears! Was Kat planning to run away and become a nun? How ludicrous! Of all the women Miranda had known in her twenty-eight years, Katherine Fitzhugh was the least likely person to yearn for a cloistered life.

“But how is this possible?” Miranda sucked on her lower lip with forbidden hope.

Kat laughed. “The moon will be full.”

Miranda shook her head. Poor sweet Katherine! She was the one who had gone mad!

“Would you take him?” Kat prodded her.

Miranda swallowed at the thought. “Aye, in a heartbeat.”

Kat hugged her again, then sang, “‘Jack shall have Jill, naught shall go ill, and all shall be well.’ Good night, coz, and sweet dreams attend you!” With a loud yawn, Kat slid beneath the covers.

Miranda stared at the dying embers in the fireplace.
I will speak to Sondra first thing in the morning. Perhaps Kat is in desperate need of a purge to clear her addled wits.

Pacing behind the stables, Jess cursed himself for the twentieth time. Sir Brandon would have his hide when he found out what Jess had done. Actually, Jess had not meant to do it; ’twas Sondra’s fault. Hang the pretty wench! If he hadn’t fallen under her spell...

Jess licked his lips. Not that he minded being in Sondra’s thrall. Aye, she was bonny and buxom, and she pleased him more than any other woman had ever pleased him. In or out of bed. She could make him laugh with her tales and her jests; she brewed a good ale; she had banished that troublesome wart on the back of his hand. At night, she warmed both his heart and his loins. Each morning, she left him with a kiss lingering on his lips, like a drop of honey. But, somehow, she had conned him into betraying his master. Now there would be hell to pay when Lord Cavendish learned of Jess’s perfidy.

Was he a man, or a runny-nosed apprentice afraid of his master’s ire? Jess drew up to his fullest height and expanded his chest to give himself courage. With a resolution stuck firm in his heart, Jess strode into the stables where he knew the knights were giving their horses their morning’s oats.

“Good morrow, Jess.” Brandon grinned at him over the back of Windchaser. “How fares the day? Will the weather hold?”

Jess blinked to accustom his eyes to the dimness of the stable’s interior. “Aye, my lord. Not a cloud to be seen. Just now, I spied a kestrel winging high in the sky. ’Tis a good omen.” He shifted his feet on the straw-strewn floor.

Brandon chuckled, then called to Jack, who was in the act of inspecting one of Thunder’s shoes. “Do you mark that, Jack? Jess predicts ’twill be a fine day. A good day for hunting.”

Jess looked up from studying the toe of his boot. “Hunting, my lord? Do you have in mind a hart, or some rabbits, mayhap a boar?”

Brandon flashed him a wicked grin. “Nay, we will not need your services this day, Jess, save to give Windchaser and Thunder a good run in the fields. I speak of a heart of a different sort. And our hunting grounds will be a picnic, eh, Jack?”

Jack’s chuckle answered him.

Jess licked his lips. “Aye, ’twill be a fine day for that, my lord.”
Tell him now,
his conscience prodded him, while Sir Brandon was in a good mood.

Jess cleared his throat. “My lord...” he faltered, trying to decide exactly how to begin.

Brandon patted Windchaser’s rump as he crossed behind the horse. “Aye, Jess?”

“My lord...” he started again. God’s nightshirt! What was he going to say?

Brandon regarded him with a thoughtful air. “Methinks you are much troubled, Jess. Has the delightful housekeeper thrown you out of her affections?”

Jess’s eyes widened. “You know of her, my lord?”

Grinning, Brandon nodded. “Aye, with two large-eyed squires such as Mark and Christopher, there are scant goings-on in this place that we haven’t heard about.”

“Save for the personal activities of Mark and Christopher,” added Jack, wiping his hands clean with a piece of old felt. “Come, Jess, you can tell me your sad tale, for am I not the acknowledged Jack of Hearts? I am at your disposal to advise you how to win back the good woman’s interest.”

“Nay, my lords. Sondra and me...” He shuffled the straw some more. “We do right well. That is not what I’ve come to tell you.”

Brandon clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, then, out with it, man! My stomach rumbles for some bread and a bit of last night’s roast duck. What is on your mind?”

Jess hung his head. “Your pardon, my lord. I beg your forgiveness, for I’ve gone and betrayed you.”

Brandon shook his head slowly. “How now? Take me with you, huntsman. Just what have you betrayed?”

“’Twas not all my fault, my lord.”

“It never is,” Brandon muttered under his breath.

Jess felt a warmth crawl up the back of his neck at that remark. “But I’ll take the blame for all.”

“I’ll wager two shillings the matter has a woman behind it,” Jack remarked, leaning against the stall.

Brandon pointed to a bale of hay. “Sit down, Jess, and tell us this interesting tale.”

Jess plopped onto the hay, took a deep breath and embarked with his story. “This morning Sondra left me as usual—”

Jack snapped his fingers. “Ha! The wager is mine!”

Brandon shot Jack a dark look. “Go on,” he urged Jess.

“And as it was still some time afore I was to rise, I lay back and thought upon what we did—Sondra and myself—”

Brandon held up his hand. “We do not need to hear the details of that, Jess.”

“Why not?” Jack grinned.

Jess plunged on, afraid that, if he was stopped again, he would lose his nerve. “And I got to remembering the first night we...ah, met, and the most peculiar thing of it was, that I didn’t remember when Sondra came to me.”

“How now? Forget taking that buxom wench?” Jack arched his eyebrow. “How much ale did you drink that night, Jess?”

“Jack!” Brandon growled.

Jess nodded. “Just so, my lord. ‘Twas more than my usual. And as I lay there, twixt waking and sleep, it came to me in bits and pieces. And ’twas right pleasurable in the remembering.” Jess grinned in spite of the situation.

“I am all ears.” Brandon upended a wooden bucket, then sat down on it. “Pray, tell us more.”

“Then, as I was remembering the things we said and did, I recalled saying something like I was fortunate to be a-sleeping true, when my lord was a-sleeping false.”

Brandon whistled under his breath but said nothing. Jess relaxed a little. At least his master wasn’t bellowing—not that bellowing was his lord’s usual practice—but Jess wasn’t too sure how Sir Brandon was going to react, when he finally got to the meat of the problem.

“And then Sondra tickled me in...well, in a private place of mine, and she asked what did I mean. And I, feeling drowsy and content, said something like that my lord was a-playing at being Sir John, and Sir John was a-wooing up a storm to Lady Katherine as Sir Brandon.”

“Hoy-day!” Jack slapped his leg. “The horse is out of the stable now!”

“And what did Sondra say?” Brandon asked in a calm tone.

Jess cut a quick glance in his direction and was relieved to see that Lord Cavendish had not changed color. This boded much better than Jess had hoped. “She did nothing but laugh and tickle me some more. And she asked me to repeat what I said. I confess that my mind was on my nether parts, and not on what I was a-saying. But the more I thought on it this morning, the more clear the vision got. And now, I swear to you, I believe I did tell her of your disguising, my lord. But I never did it intentionally, by God’s holy word, I swear.”

Brandon patted the huntsman on his shoulder, which cheered Jess considerably. “Peace, my friend. ’Twas not your fault. It appears we are surrounded by a flock of scheming women.”

“Pretty ones, though,” interjected Jack. “You have to give them that. I have never seen such a sweet bunch of posies in my life—chambermaids, housekeepers, musicians, companions—and the fair lady, who rules over them all.”

Jess blinked at Jack. “Aye, my lord. They are right handsome.”

Just then Brandon laughed, the sound floating up from his throat and filling the stable. A few of the grooms looked out from the stall boxes where they were sweeping.

“And we three are a right handsome trio of pantaloons!” Brandon continued to laugh so hard he had to drape himself over Windchaser’s back to support himself.

“Then you’ll forgive me, sir?” Jess asked, looking from one lord to the other.

Jack shrugged. “Methinks he does—when he can get his breath back.”

Brandon finally ceased, with a chuckle or two, then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Gentlemen, had I a pitcher of Mistress Owens’s beer, I would bid you join me in a toast to the fair ladies who have bedeviled our lives. Since I have neither beer nor cups, think on it when next you drink.”

“Aye.” Jess nodded. He could do with a cup of cool beer right about now. Confession took a lot out of a man.

Brandon fished in his poke and drew out a sixpence, which he handed to Jess. “Take that for your pains, Jess, and be gone. I am right glad to hear that Mistress Owens has not yet grown tired of you, even after she got what she looked for in the first place.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jess wasn’t too sure what his lord meant by all that, but a sixpence in the hand was a far better punishment than a lick or two on his back.

“I take it you are not dismayed by this turn of events?” Jack asked.

Brandon smiled with a smug, cat-in-the-cream look. “Nay, ’tis better than I had hoped for, Jack.”

“How so?”

“Why now, I have no qualms against seducing the sweet mistress of this fine abode. If I know who she is, and she knows who I am, then I have no fear of cuckolding myself—in her eyes.”

“But does the lady know that you know that she knows?” Jack asked.

“Jackanapes! You quibble like a lawyer!” Brandon rubbed his hands together. “What a picnic we will have this day! I have set my mind upon a most particular dessert—of a private nature—and I mean to enjoy it fully!”

Both the gentlemen burst out laughing. Jess scratched his head. Hang it all if he could understand the nobility! Nodding to the knights, who continued to bray at each other, Jess left the stable a satisfied man. A clear conscience, and a sixpence to go with it—not a bad day’s work, and ’twas only seven of the clock in the morning.

“Queen Mab’s Malady? Ha! A pox upon it! I have been made the fool of all fools, Wormsley!” Fenton glowered through the red haze of his anger at his servant. “And by that bitch of an aunt!”

Wormsley returned Fenton’s look with a complete lack of concern. Fenton curled his lip. Idiot! Kat had played her wicked deed on the boy, as well as the master. Didn’t the slug care that he had great itching hives, or that his nose had run green snot and pepper for two days? Fenton gnashed his teeth. Hell wasn’t hot coals and dancing devils. It was being cooped up in a rank Dover inn with a mewling idiot for company, and a tender skin racked with nettle stings and peeling blisters!