He plopped Belle down in front of the hearth then took off the wineskin that hung from his shoulder on a crimson cord. “A sweet vintage claret from your very own cellars. Let us drink to the ghostly horse and the drummer upon the battlements. God’s teeth, Belle! Twas a masterpiece of confusion! You should have seen those pullets run!”
He took a deep drink before he passed the skin to her. The cool wine soothed her tight throat. The knotted muscles in her shoulders relaxed under its influence. “And Mortimer? Did he run?”
A frown creased Mark’s features. “Nay! At first me-thought he would, but he held himself in check, though he shook like a leaf in the November wind. But fear not, Belle. I have laid the groundwork for even further mischief.”
Belle folded her arms across her breasts as if to keep her traitorous heart from flying out to him. “My, my! How your tongue wags!”
Mark tossed her a boyish grin, one that she found far too appealing for safety’s sake. “Cool your temper, chou-chou. I have but toiled in your service.” He drew closer to her and circled her waist with his arm. “Mortimer is shaken and methinks he will lose a number of his men after tonight’s work.” He smoothed a wisp of her hair across her forehead. “Thanks to Jobe and Kitt, Mortimer will fall into the trap that I baited at suppertime.”
Just as I am falling into your trap, you thief of hearts! She wiggled out of his embrace and swept up the sleeping cat in her arms. Dexter’s effect on Mark would keep that swaggering rooster at bay. “What ploy now rattles around that brain of yours? Or are you only thinking of my father’s rich land and your future rich wife?”
Mark winced as if she had shot him with an arrow. He whistled through his teeth before taking another drink from the wineskin. “What did you eat for supper, Belladonna? Fire and brimstone? Exactly what have I done recently to deserve this disdain? I have half a mind to leave you to do your own haunting.”
In a crystal-clear instant, Belle remembered the last time she had seen Mark eight years ago. His expression had been the same mixture of disbelief, anger and pain when she had rebuffed his amorous advances and pushed him out of the tree. The resulting fall had broken his sword arm. Belle had regretted her action immediately, but her pride kept her from admitting it to Mark. Nor did her fear of her father’s anger allow her to admit her responsibility for the mishap.
Belle bit her tongue. A wise woman never made the same mistake twice. This time she would apologize for her sharp rebuke. Still holding the cat, she sat down on the foot of the bed and patted the place beside her.
She flashed him a half smile when he joined her. “The hour is late, Mark, and I am at sixes and sevens. Forgive me…that is, my words. In faith, I am grateful for all that you and Jobe are doing on my behalf—even if you are corrupting Kitt in the process,” she added.
Mark moved to put his arm around her shoulder, but he sneezed instead. Turning away from her, he blew his nose. “A plague on your cat,” he muttered.
Belle stroked Dexter’s long back. He purred in his sleep. “Tell me of this trap you have set,” she suggested in her most winsome tone.
Mark moved farther away from Dexter before answering. “Mortimer will hold a feast on All Hallows Eve to appease the restless spirits of the castle. I have already put a number of ideas into Griselda’s ear. She is so terrified of her own shadow, methinks she will implement them all.”
I wonder what sort of ideas you would put into my ear if I ever gave you half the chance? Belle banished that intriguing question before it had time to take root in her imagination. “Tis good for a start,” she conceded.
Mark sneezed again. His eyes watered. “Sdeath, Belle! I must depart before I go blind or cease to breathe.” He sneezed a third time. “Adieu!” He backed toward the door.
I can’t let him leave while he still thinks ill of me. “Wait a moment, Mark!” Belle dropped Dexter back onto the bed.
He had already opened the door. He drew deep breaths of the cold night air that hung in the long empty gallery. Belle took his warm hand in hers. “You did right well tonight, Marcus,” she whispered. “I am grateful.”
He wiped his nose then slowly raised one of his dark brows. “Grateful?” he repeated. “You have never been grateful for anything in your life, chou-chou. As I recall, you played the Amazon princess and treated the rest of us as your slaves.”
His barb hit home. Belle tried to think of a proper retort without stinging his vanity any further. “Twas a childish game.” She looked deeply into his liquid brown eyes. “And I am not a child any longer,” she murmured.
An indefinable sensuous spark passed between them. His steady gaze bored into her, causing a tingling sensation at the base of her throat. Without speaking, he drew her into his arms. Her skin prickled at his tender touch. Rising on her toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her fingers in his thick dark hair. His breath softly fanned her face as he bent down to her.
“Tis true, sweetheart, you are all woman now—and I am a man.”
His mouth closed over hers. She melted under his gentle assault, and gave him her kiss in return—lingering over his lips, savoring every sweet moment of the encounter. Lights flashed behind her closed eyelids. Something buzzed in her ears. Though her eager response to the magic of his lips shocked her, she pulled him closer to her. He deepened his kiss as if he would plumb the depths to her very soul. Her thoughts spun like a whirligig. She clung to him lest she melt away.
After endless moments, he slowly withdrew, leaving her mouth burning with his fire. “Ah, Belle,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “You have witchcraft in your lips.”
Then, with a quick peck on her nose, he set her back on her feet. Still reeling from the impact of their passion, Belle opened her eyes.
Mark stood at the edge of the tapestry. “Knew you couldn’t resist me for long.” He winked at her, then disappeared around the embroidered cover.
Belle touched her still-burning lips. “Don’t begin to strut just yet, my Lord Hayward,” she whispered.
Her hands filled with missives from the south, Kat burst into Brandon’s sickroom. She gave her dozing husband a gentle shake.
“What?” he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Tis supper time?” he added with a hopeful expression.
Despite her anxiety, Kat smiled at him. What a lovable bear he was! “Not yet, my darling, but there is news to chew on, and such news that you will never believe.” She waved the letters under his nose. “At this rate, I shall have to erect a postbox at the gate to catch them all.”
Brandon pulled himself into a sitting position. “From Montjoy again?”
Kat nodded. “Aye, him, as well as from Mark, Kitt, Belle, thank heavens, even old Andrew. And there’s a particularly vile one from Mortimer Fletcher.”
Brandon narrowed his eyes. “Bad news?”
Kat fanned herself with the letters. “That depends upon which one you read. They are written in every humor—and then some.”
“Are the children safe? Tell me that first.”
Kat shuffled through the pile until she located Belle’s brief note. “Methinks so, but you be the judge. Belle writes that she is well no matter what other news we may hear of her and—attend to this part, Brandon—she says that ‘the rumors of my recent death are all false.”’
Brandon rubbed his temples. “Belle always enjoyed courting an air of mystery. Does she elaborate?”
“Nay, though she does end with this interesting note, ‘Mark is not as bad as I once thought him to be, even if you are paying the jackanapes.”’
Brandon grinned. “That’s my girl and no mistake. I would have hated to be in Mark’s shoes when she learned of my offer. It must have set her pride back a notch or two.”
Kat shook her head. “Mark was a fool to have told her.”
“Methinks he didn’t. What does Kitt write?”
Kat smoothed out his letter on her knee before handing it to Brandon. “I shall not deny you the pleasure of
deciphering it yourself. His penmanship is only a shade less shocking than your own.” She smiled. She would preserve Kitt’s first letter to his parents in her jewel casket, shocking penmanship and all.
Brandon squinted at the scrap of paper. “Hoy day, Kat! Tis enough to make a scholar weep. ‘To Mama and Papa, I send gratings. Feer not fur me. I am rite wele in spirit and in bodie.”’ Pausing, Brandon gave his wife a sheepish look. “Methinks we have been a bit slack with Kitt’s schooling. He goes on to say, ‘Belle is safe and we are having xcellent sport.’ What the devil does that mean?”
Kat shook her head. “I know not, save that each one of these letters gives me cause for some concern. Pray continue. You are translating Kitt’s prose much better than I could.”
“Hmm. ‘I will rite more a nun. Yur most loving son, Christopher Cavendish. By the way, I am lerning how to be a…”’ Brandon sounded out the word slowly. “God shield us from such scribbling. Methinks he says he is becoming a warrior though his spelling is almost beyond belief.”
Kat arched her brow. “Tis not how Kitt spells the word that worries me half as much as what he might be doing to become one. Sweet Saint Anne, Brandon! I fear our baby will injure himself in some madcap escapade. Trust me, I will put a very large flea in Mark’s ear when next I clap my eyes on him.”
Brandon had the cheek to laugh at her maternal misgivings. “Hold your ire, sweetheart. Our son needs to stretch his wings. Methinks we have coddled him too long. In fact, I intend to ask Mark if he would take Kitt as his squire.”
Kat glared at her husband. “You are moonstruck!”
He chuckled. “Time will tell. What does Mark write? His spelling should be more readable, though I admit I did not give it much attention when I had him under my tutelage.”
Kat decided not to agitate Brandon any further on the matter of Kitt’s future—at least not until Brandon could stand upright. Then she would speak her mind in full. She unfolded Mark’s letter.
“He sends the usual salutations, then says Belle is safe ‘for the moment.’ My mind misgives what that arch phrase might mean. He goes on to say that there have been ‘complications of divers sorts’ and that we are not to believe a word we might hear either of Belle’s death—or of his own betrothal!”
Brandon furrowed his brows. “What the hell is going on at Bodiam?”
“My thoughts exactly. We should never have sent Mark and that…that blackamoor down there. They have made a complete dog’s breakfast of the whole matter.”
Brandon took her nearest hand in his and kissed it. “Tush, my love. The fault lies not with Mark, but with his charges. After all, he is saddled with two Cavendishes and you know what a stubborn lot we are.”
Kat softened a little under the gentle pressure of his lips on her skin. It had been over six weeks since they had last shared a bed and she missed him sorely. She was half-tempted to—
She gave herself a shake. “Mark ends with his hopes for your rapid recovery. That’s it. No explanations, no details. Nothing! I could just scream.”
Brandon turned her hand over and caressed her palm with his warm tongue. He shot her a mischievous glance. “Does Montjoy fill in the gaps?” he asked.
Kat shivered, then she frowned when she thought of the old man’s message. At least, Montjoy wrote with a good hand and understandable spelling. “Doom and gloom, as is his usual habit, but he does say that Mortimer has filed for Bodiam’s ownership due to the death of the castle’s late owner.” She pursed her lips. “He’ll claim Bodiam over my dead body!”
“God help Master Fletcher,” muttered Brandon. He nibbled on her fingers.
Kat found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. “Brandon! I pray you pay attention.”
He sighed but did not let go of her hand. “What else does your worthy steward say?”
“That Mark and the son of the devil—that must be Jobe—have embarked upon a hare-brained scheme and that Belle is their leader in the enterprise. Montjoy predicts disaster will result.”
“He would,” Brandon remarked. “Anything else?”
Kat snorted. “Of course not. He leaves us dangling like trout on a line. Oh! He can be the most infuriating man—besides you.”
Brandon stared at the two remaining letters. “Which one next?”
Kat decided to save Mortimer’s for last. She opened Sir Andrew Ford’s note. “Uncle Andrew is almost as bad as the rest of them. He tells us to ‘be of good cheer’ and that Mark is a most excellent young man.”
“I always thought so myself,” Brandon agreed.
Kat rolled her eyes, then continued. “He further writes that he has been creating ‘many unusual fireworks for Mark’s grand illumination.’ Now I ask you, Brandon. What can he possibly mean by that?”
He shrugged. “Mark’s wedding perchance? Who knows? I agree with you, my love. Something strange is surely afoot at Bodiam, though I have not got the least idea what it might be.”
Kat took a deep breath. “Then this letter from Mortimer will confirm your worst suspicions. Tis a foul piece of work, I assure you.”
“Mortimer himself is a foul piece of work. Read on.”
Kat cleared her throat. “‘To my Lord and Lady Cavendish, Wolf Hall. I fear I must send you tidings of the most doleful nature and so I will be brief. On the evening of the twenty-second of October, your daughter, deep in grief for my poor brother, did take her own life—”’
“What!” Brandon sat bolt upright in his bed. “The devil take him! What does that moldwarp think he is doing?”
Kat jumped up and eased Brandon back against the pillows. “Soft, my darling. Remember, tis not true. Belle is very much alive and up to mischief. I’ll warrant that she is the mastermind behind this ruse.”
Brandon stroked her cheek. “Ah, Kat! I am glad of your clear head. What wickedness bustles about this old earth! There, I am calm now. Read me the rest of this knave’s puling lie.”
Kat curled up beside him. “He continues that ‘I have disposed of her earthly remains as is fit under these most grievous circumstances—”’
“I’ll gladly dispose of Fletcher’s earthly remains,” Brandon growled.
Kat kissed his brow to soothe her husband, then she read, “…and will administer Bodiam Castle as it is now my right. I would offer you my condolences, but the church’s teaching forbids me do so. I remain your most obedient servant, Mortimer Fletcher.’ Oh! The man has the heart of a snake. What kind of monster would send such a letter?”
Brandon put his arm around her and drew her closer to him. Kat pillowed her head on his shoulder. “What if we had not received Belle’s letter first?” she whispered.
“Tis why I am right glad that Mark is there with her,” he replied. He kissed her forehead.
“But what should we do, Brandon? I cannot bear to sit idly by while our children dance a galliard with danger.”
In answer he gave her a deep kiss that heated her blood. “Then let us not be idle,” he murmured. “First, you will physic me with the pleasure of your sweet body—”
“Brandon!” she gasped as he caressed her breast. “You are supposed to lie still.”
“And then we will take a little ride to the south—”
“You cannot possibly sit on a horse!” Her mind clouded with the insistence of his love-making.
He chuckled in the back of his throat. “Oh, there are a great many things methinks I can do when given the proper incentive. Very well, we will go to Bodiam in a wagon.” He rained kisses on her eyelids and nose. “And there we will take our children in hand and afterward we will hang up Mortimer Fletcher by his heels from the portcullis. Mmmm! Give me your mouth, my love.”
“Brandon! You are completely impossible!”
“True, sweet Kat. I am a Cavendish.”
Chapter Twelve
Immediately after finishing his breakfast, Mortimer requested Mark to join him in the estate office. Dreading the subject of the coming interview, Mark followed the man into the small
chamber off the hall. Mortimer closed the thick oaken door, then seated himself behind his counting table. He graciously offered Mark the better chair.
He looks like he’s had even less sleep than me.
Mortimer’s eyes were red-rimmed and deep shadows hung under them. Mark assumed a pose of casual nonchalance.
“Ah, Fletcher! How I envy you!” he began before Mortimer could open his mouth. “The Sussex air is most marvelous for my health and constitution. By my faith, my appetite has much improved and my sleep sweeter since I have come here.”
Mortimer stared at him with utter disbelief etched on his pasty countenance. “Surely you jest with me, Sir Mark. You too have been awakened by the sounds in the night.”
Mark gave him a wry look in return. “Aye, your minions make a great deal of noise over a wayward horse that bolts from his stall on occasion.”
“But the hoofbeats?”
Mark shrugged. “I have heard nothing but a great deal of shouting. Indeed, my squire has enjoyed the show immensely,” he added.
Mortimer wiped his face with a sodden handkerchief. “And the drumming? What of that?”
Mark laughed. “Peace, friend! Do not remind me. Tis true. I tend to drink too much of your good wine at night. The drumming in my ears is my just penance.”
The other man turned a sickly mottled color. “Nay! I speak of the drum upon the battlements.”
Swallowing his grin, Mark shook his head. “I heard nothing.”
“Last night at supper, the candles went out suddenly.”
“Twas a puff of ill wind.”
Mortimer grew more agitated by the minute. “That howling! You could not have missed such a hell-sent noise.”
Mark pretended to ponder the question. “Nay, I recall no howling. Is there a dog in pain? In faith, I have seen no dogs since my arrival. Now there is one large, overfed cat. Did it howl, by any chance?”
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