She glanced at him from under the dark fringe of her lashes. “Then your friend must be a miracle worker, for Lady Katherine has had nothing but harsh words and ill treatment from every man she has ever known, beginning with her father.”
“’Tis a wonder that the lady is so sweet tempered.” Brandon lifted her hand to his lips. He lightly caressed her fingers. “Tell me of Lady Katherine’s early days—so that I may tell Brandon.”
She swallowed. “There is not much to tell. Her father, Sir Robert Addison, had two daughters, no sons. Grace was the eldest by nearly twelve years. Their mother died giving birth to m...my cousin. I believe her father never forgave Katherine for that. Grace married the second son of the Earl of Fairfax. They died in a carriage accident when her son, Fenton, was ten. Kat, then married to her second husband, took the boy in.”
Brandon gritted his teeth. “Fenton! A subtle, slippery knave, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Kat shook her head slightly. “Nay, ’tis the truth. The boy was much taken with his Uncle Edward—Fitzhugh, that is—and aped him in all his ways. I fear he will grow worse as he grows older.”
“He needs the firm hand of a new uncle,” Brandon growled.
“Aye. Do you suppose that Sir Brandon can control him?”
Brandon returned a tight smile to her. “My oath upon it!”
“Good! For Fenton is a dreadful liar.” Kat grinned, banishing the knot of worry and sadness that had clouded her face. “Do you know what he told us of Sir Brandon?”
Brandon gritted his teeth. “I can only imagine.”
“He told us that Lord Cavendish was young, barely out of the schoolroom! We were most surprised when you...and Sir Brandon, appeared in the hall.”
Brandon mused that it was no wonder both women had looked thunderstruck and gabbled like geese on that first meeting! Aloud, he remarked, “Your surprise was no less than ours. Fenton told us that you...ah, Lady Katherine was—” He stopped himself. Jolt-head! Women were very sensitive about their ages.
Kat stroked the fingers of the hand she held. Her featherlight touch threatened to shatter his self-control. Damn the stewed hare and honeyed peaches!
“Pray, what did that rogue say about us?”
Brandon licked his lips. “That Lady Katherine was quite elderly, and that she practiced witchcraft.”
Kat’s eyes widened, then she burst into a peal of rippling laughter. “And what have you learned since meeting me...my cousin?”
Brandon drew her closer still, so that her face was only a kiss away. His heart drummed against his rib cage. “I have learned that she is light of form and figure. That her eyes brim with kindness. And that her only witchcraft is to charm the hearts of all who meet her.”
Kat sighed, her breath sweetened with the peaches. “You are beginning to talk like Sir Brandon.”
“Believe me truly when I say that I speak with his heart and his tongue.”
She moistened her lush lips. “And what else does his tongue say?”
“This,” Brandon replied as he claimed her lips with his own.
Without quite knowing how, Kat found herself in Brandon’s lap. She didn’t care as she returned his kiss with a hunger that belied her determination to remain unmoved. How could she stay calm when his tongue sent shivers of desire racing through her?
Raising his mouth from hers for a moment, Brandon gazed into her eyes. “There is poetry on your lips, sweet mistress. I desire to study more of it.”
She wove her fingers through his thick blond hair at the nape of his neck. “Teach me this poetry, for I have never tasted its sweetness before.”
Reclaiming her lips, he crushed her to him. Her soul sang in joyful response. If this is paradise, let me stay here forever!
Brandon moved his mouth over hers, as if he would devour her. Then his lips left hers to nibble at her earlobe.
“Sweet,” he murmured as he kissed the pulsing hollow at the base of her throat. His lips continued to explore her soft ivory flesh as they seared a path down her neck to explore the bared expanse of her bosom.
Kat’s nipples tingled, then tightened with unaccustomed expectation. Her breath came in short gasps, shocking her at her eager response to his touch. Her mouth quivered with an aching desire to taste his again. Parting her lips, she raised her head to meet him.
Brandon’s grip tightened around her. Kat relaxed, sinking into his cushioning embrace. She felt transported on a soft, wispy cloud, far away from fear, pain and humiliation. I am home, at last.
A loud shriek shattered the moment into a thousand jagged fragments. Another scream, calling for help, was followed by a tremendous splash of water.
Brandon tore his mouth from hers. “God’s death, what has happened?”
Kat flicked her tongue over her burning lips. “Methinks ’tis Mir—my cousin.”
A man’s voice cried out, then a second splash followed.
Bunching her skirts in her hands, Kat struggled to rise. “Saints preserve us! They have fallen into the river!”
Chapter Twelve
Jack couldn’t imagine how the disaster had happened. One minute, he had been whispering sweet nothings into Miranda’s ear, and the next minute she was floundering in the river.
“Help me, ere I sink!” she cried as her skirts and petticoats ballooned out around her, making her look like a living water lily. Then the current caught her, and her clothing collapsed as it became waterlogged. Miranda’s head dipped under.
“Sweet Jesu!” Jack cried, ripping off his doublet. He flung himself into the water after her.
He swam a few strokes, then saw her red hair floating just under the surface. With an icy knot in his stomach, Jack dived. The material of Miranda’s flowing gown wrapped around him. For a split second, panic gripped him, then his foot scraped the bottom. Jack grabbed a handful of her clothing. Digging his feet deep into the muck and wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled Miranda to the surface. Her arm, flailing in her desperation, struck his head smartly, but he hung on.
With a mighty effort to keep his footing, he maneuvered Miranda into the shallows just as Brandon and Kat appeared on the shore. Jack heard them both shouting something, but he was too intent on getting Miranda to safety. Her eyes were closed, and her face had gone chalk white. She couldn’t die! Not now.
Splashing into the water, Brandon grabbed her. “I have got her, Jack,” he shouted. “You can let go.”
Dazed, Jack relaxed his hold. Brandon carried the unconscious woman up the slippery bank where Kat waited, anxiety etched on her face. A creeping heaviness stole into Jack’s limbs as he saw Brandon lay Miranda on the grass. Jack could hardly pull himself out of the water. He didn’t care. He should have died with her. To have held happiness in his hands for such a brief moment, and now to have lost her in a blink of an eye? He stumbled up the bank, his soaked boots slipping sideways in the slick mud.
He fell to his knees at Miranda’s side. “’Tis my fault, villain that I am,” he gasped. “I must have frightened her.”
Brandon didn’t reply, but rolled Miranda onto her stomach, and began to knead her back, forcing the water out of her mouth.
“If only she had known me by my real name.”
“Shut up, Jack!” Brandon growled. “The lady isn’t dead.”
Miranda coughed, then groaned, then coughed out more water. Brandon continued to pound her on the back.
“Stop!” she finally gasped. “Please don’t beat me to death.”
“Sweet coz!” Kat knelt beside Miranda, wrapping the picnic blanket around her. “You gave us such a fright!”
“Amen to that!” Jack whispered, not daring to touch her.
Miranda must have become frightened when he kissed her. Nay, he cringed to admit. ’Twas not his kiss that had alarmed her. He distinctly remembered putting his hand over her breast and gently squeezing it. She had whimpered in the back of her throat. The devil take him for a villain! He thought Miranda had enjoyed what he was doi
ng. Instead, he must have unhinged her, so that she had jumped in the river to save herself from further ravishment. Now he could scarcely look at her, for fear of seeing the loathing in her eyes. Jack hung his head in shame.
“We must get her back to the castle at once,” Kat told Brandon. “Lest she take a chill.”
“Please take me home,” Miranda mumbled. She didn’t look at Jack. “I want to die.”
Jack groaned at her words; each one stung him like a whiplash.
“My lord?” Kat put her arm around his shaking shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“Nay,” he mumbled. “I am damned.”
“Not yet!” Brandon scooped up Miranda into his arms, then started across the field toward the silver gray walls of Bodiam. “But you will be, if you sit there all night.”
Kat pulled Jack by the arm. “Come, my lord. Let me help you. Put your arm around my shoulder.” She smiled at him by way of encouragement.
“I am not fit for you, lady,” he apologized, struggling to his feet. “I am wet, muddy, and I fear that I would cover your pretty gown with my filth. Besides, I am no good company for man nor beast—certainly not for any ladies.”
Standing on tiptoe, Kat plucked a strand of water weed from his hair. “Pray, do not blame yourself, sir.”
Shaking his head, Jack stepped away from her tender concern. “But I do, mistress. You harbor a devil within your home.”
Kat cocked her head. “Methinks I spy a guilty conscience. Well, then, for your penance, you may help me pack up the dishes, and carry the basket back to the kitchen.”
. Jack could not smile back at her. He had no right to be so well treated by the woman whose dear cousin he had almost killed.
“To be your pack animal is an honor,” he mumbled. “Lead on.”
Several hours later, Kat stretched out her feet before the fire in the hall. After giving her cousin a hot bath, a bowl of barley soup and a warm posset made of milk, spices and sack wine, she and Sondra had tucked Miranda into bed with a hot brick at her feet. Through it all, Miranda kept wailing that she was undone, that Jack would think her a simpleton, that he had ruined his good clothes on her account, that she could never look him in the face again for all the trouble she had caused him, and more drivel to that effect. No matter what Kat had said, Miranda wouldn’t listen.
“Leave her be, my lady,” Sondra had advised Kat as they closed the door of the darkened bedchamber. “Miranda will come to her senses in due time.”
Kat sipped some of her own posset, allowing its spicy sweetness to roll down her throat. In the window seat, Columbine played a gentle ballad on the lute while the sun sent its farewell rays through the high arched glass panes. Kat tried to decide what course she should pursue on the morrow. Was she going to be Lady Katherine, or was she still Miranda?
She luxuriated in a wide yawn. After all the excitement of the day, and the two weeks beforehand, exhaustion overtook her. She didn’t even have the energy to climb the stairs to her bed.
“A sixpence for your thoughts, sweet mistress,” Brandon remarked as he entered from the corridor. “May I join you?” He pointed at the other chair.
“Aye.” Kat waved him into the seat. “Care for a posset?”
Brandon lifted a golden brow. “A friend of mine recently hinted that I take too much wine,” he reminded her.
Kat made a face. “A posset brings blessed sleep.”
“In that case, I will have some, for I will need all the help I can get, if I am to have any sleep with my bedmate tonight.”
Tilting her head, Kat asked, “Oh? Does Sir Brandon snore?”
A pensive shimmer stole into the shadow of Brandon’s eyes. Then he replied, “My Lord Cavendish is wallowing in his misery with a jug of your ale for his only comfort. He blames himself for your cousin’s misadventure.”
“Ah, just so.” Kat poured out the milky posset from the pitcher, then passed her goblet to him. “I fear we must share the cup. I do not have the strength to search you out your own.”
Brandon toasted her. “Since your lips have touched this cup, ’twill make the brew all the sweeter.”
Kat crinkled her nose. “How now? Compliments? Methinks that sounds like Sir Brandon speaking.”
“Perchance he is,” Brandon replied.
Uncomfortable with the fact that he had spoken the truth, Kat returned her attention to the fire. The flames danced with a mesmerizing grace. Brandon sipped his drink in companionable silence, but Kat could feel him watching her and not the fire. Was he waiting for her to admit her true identity? Should she? Had she played the game long enough? If so, what then? Would Brandon want to discuss marriage contracts, dower rights and other businesslike topics so tedious yet so necessary to a permanent relationship? Would he talk about the heirs he wanted to have? Kat sighed softly. No, she didn’t want to discuss any of those things—at least, not tonight, when her lips still remembered the warmth of his afternoon kisses, and her body ached to be held again.
“A shilling, then,” he said without preamble.
Kat blinked out of her reverie. “What?”
He chuckled. “A shilling for your thoughts, since you wouldn’t tell me when I offered you a sixpence.”
“Save your coin, my lord. My thoughts this night could not be bought with even a pound.” Nay, they were priceless.
“You look tired, my sweet,” he murmured, drawing his chair closer to hers.
“Aye,” she replied. “’Twas a long day.”
“But one that I am glad of.” He held out his hand to her.
She met his smile with hers and accepted the hand that he offered. “Aye, and I am glad too, my lord.”
The firelight gave a warm, ruddy cast to his features. His hair gleamed like dark gold, one stray lock falling across his forehead. Once again, Kat realized how devastatingly handsome he was. The knight of her secret fantasies now sat by her fireside, holding her hand. Something in his quiet manner soothed her spirit She drank in the comfort of his nearness. It wrapped around her like a warm blanket. With her hand nestled within his, she felt protected and at peace for the first time in her life.
Brandon gave her a little tug. “Come sit on my lap, and rest your head on my shoulder,” he suggested.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. How tempting that invitation sounded! Yet she feared what his offer might lead to. If he should press his advantage, she had no strength to resist.
As if he could read her thoughts, Brandon continued, “I fear I must disappoint you, for I am too tired to ravish you tonight.”
Glancing at him, she saw a smile hovering about his lips.
“Methought you were inspired by rabbit stew and peaches,” she remarked as casually as she could manage.
“Ah, that!” Amusement flicked in the blue eyes that met hers. “Methinks the rabbits grew tired, and have gone to sleep for the night. As you should do anon.”
“Aye.” A yawn caught her by surprise. “Oh! Your pardon!”
He tugged on her hand again. “Come into my lap, and I will tell you a bedtime story.”
This time she could not resist his smile, nor his invitation. “I fear I may be too heavy for you.”
“I think not.”
She allowed him to pull her out of her chair, then settled herself in his welcoming arms. Curling into the curve of his body, she laid her head on his broad shoulder.
“There now. What story would you like me to tell?” he murmured tenderly in her ear.
“I know not, for no one has ever told me a story before,” she replied. Sleep hovered about her heavy eyelids.
“Since you are so fond of rabbits, I will tell you the story of how the hare jumped over the moon on Midsummer’s Eve.” His voice lowered to a husky whisper. “Once upon a time...”
Kat did not hear whatever else he said. She drifted on a golden cloud of drowsiness. From there, a deeper sleep was only a heartbeat away.
When she awoke next morning, Kat found herself still fully cl
othed, and rolled up in a blanket in one of the empty bedchambers. A freshly plucked rose, its pink petals studded with rain droplets, lay on the pillow beside her.
“By our larkin, my lady! You have slept a long time.” Laurel looked up from the fire that she had been tending. “’Tis after ten.”
Kat rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then looked around the chamber. “How did you know I was in here?”
Laurel’s eyes twinkled. “Montjoy told Sondra, who told me.” Laurel warmed Kat’s dressing robe before the fire. “Every once in a while that old man surprises us all.”
Kat sniffed the rose. Its perfume filled her nostrils. “How so?”
Laurel brought the robe to the bed, then began to untie the lacing of Kat’s yellow gown. “My lord sat up most of the night in the hall with you a-sleeping in his arms. He thanked Columbine for her music, and asked her to bank the fire afore she left. She told me ’twas a winsome sight to see you curled up, like a kitten, in that big man’s arms. Lord help me, Lady Kat! The knots on your laces are monstrous hard to untie. Shows what sleeping in your good clothes does to them.”
“And what of Montjoy?” Kat prodded.
“Oh, aye. He sat in the alcove and kept his eye on my lord, in case the gentleman had some mischief on his mind. But all that my lord did was to hold you, and sleep a bit himself, or so Montjoy said.”
Kat stared at Laurel. “Montjoy stayed awake all night?”
“Aye, till near dawn. Then Mark, the squire, came in and woke him. The fire had gone cold, Montjoy said, because his bones were chilled. That’s when my lord finally rose, with you still fast asleep. Montjoy directed him to lay you in here, so as not to disturb Miranda.”
“And this?” Kat held out the pink blossom.
Laurel’s lips curved in a smile. “My lord sent his squire running to the garden for it. He told him to pick your best one. Mark came back soaking wet, but with that rose. Montjoy said that my lord placed it on your pillow himself.”
Kat smiled as she traced the line of her cheek with its soft petals. Then she recalled her ancient, faithful steward. “Poor Montjoy! I hope he took himself off to his own bed straightway.”
Tori Phillips Page 14