Midsummer's Knight - Tori Phillips

Скачать книгу

      Sir Brandon resumed their stroll. Miranda breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving. How could she keep her wits about her, when every time the handsome lord looked at her, she wanted to melt into a puddle at his feet?

      He coughed, then cleared his throat. “I do not mean to distress you, especially on such a sweet evening as this, my love, but since you mentioned it, how did your late husband expire? I am told ’twas sudden.”

      Miranda gritted her teeth at the loathsome memory of Fitzhugh the Furious and his last moments on earth. “The doctor said ’twas a stroke in his brain that caused it, my lord. He died in the midst of beating my cousin.”

      Sir Brandon stopped so suddenly that Miranda bumped into him. He caught her around the waist, then drew her closer. “He struck your gentle cousin?” His voice rose with a fury she had not heard before.

      Squaring her shoulders, Miranda looked him straight in the eye. Kat hated to recall Fitzhugh, and with good reason, but Sir Brandon should know what a hell her life had been during her second marriage. Perhaps he would treat Kat with the loving kindness she deserved.

      “Aye, ’twas his custom. Sometimes he used a belt, sometimes a small whip of leather thongs, sometimes merely his hand. It pleased him in some devilish perverse way to hear her cry, and to see her bleed.”

      “God have mercy,” Sir Brandon whispered. “Why didn’t you stop him? You were his wife!”

      Miranda hung her head. The memory of her hiding in the stable loft or under beds was a shameful one. She answered in a barely audible voice. “Fitzhugh treated his wife as shamefully as he did his servants. No one dared to interfere with the master of the house. ‘Twas a sweet relief when he went to court for a month or two. ’Twas paradise on earth when he died. I fear no tears were shed at his funeral.”

      Enfolding Miranda in his embrace, Sir Brandon hugged her with a fierce possessiveness. “Sweet Jesu!”

      She reveled in the moment of such overpowering love, then she placed her palms against his chest and looked up at him. “There is one boon that I beg you, Sir Brandon.”

      “Name it. ’Tis yours for the asking,” he replied in a husky tone.

      “When you are married, I beg you to promise me that you will never raise your hand to your wife, and to treat her kindly every day. Please. Swear to me this vow.”

      Sir Brandon took one of her hands in his. “Upon my soul’s hope for eternal salvation, I swear to you that Sir Brandon Cavendish will never touch his most precious wife except with gentle love.”

      Closing her eyes, Miranda sighed with relief. “I am in your debt, my lord. You do not know how happy you have made me.”

      “And I would make you happier, if it were in my power.”

      He bent his head to kiss her, but Miranda perceived his intent and stepped out of his embrace. If she let him kiss her now, she might not be able to hold back.

      Hugging her arms, she shivered. “The night grows colder, my lord. Let us hurry indoors.”

      Sir Brandon nodded, then tucked her arm around his again. “You speak with great wisdom, my lady,” he muttered.

      As they mounted the low steps to the garden door of the castle, Miranda turned to him. “One final request, Sir Brandon. I beg you not to speak of this matter to my cousin. Even now, the memory of that terrible time grieves her.”

      Cavendish placed his hand over hers. “You have my bond and my oath upon that, my lady. I shall not speak a word of it—to her.”

      Chapter Six

      “He beat Miranda?” Brandon slammed his fist against the chimney flue in the guest chamber. The rough stone scored his flesh, but Brandon barely noticed the pain.

      “Aye, both of them, and often. Lady Katherine was loath to speak of it.” Jack poured his friend a cup of wine. “Drink some of this. ’Twill take the taste of gall from your tongue.”

      “That vile, creeping, venomous viper dared to lay his hand on that sweet lady?” Brandon snatched the cup, then tossed back the contents in a single loud gulp. The roughness of the unwatered wine made tears spring to the corners of his eyes.

      “On both ladies, my friend,” Jack reminded him in a chiding tone. He poured Brandon another drink.

      “I remember that villainous toad at court.” Brandon’s lips curled like a snarling dog’s.

      “And I, as well. A barrel-chested bruiser—blustery, shouting the rafters down, and always red in the face.” Jack yanked off one boot, then the other in preparation for bed.

      “A poor sport in the tiltyard, and hard on his squires.” Brandon rubbed his forefinger across his upper lip.

      And while her husband sported at court, his poor Katherine and sweet Miranda cowered within the cold walls of Bodiam, waiting in terror for the master’s return. The thought of them under the hands of that barbarous brute made Brandon shake with anger.

      “Did no one try to protect them?” Turning away from the fire, Brandon stared at Jack.

      Meeting Brandon’s look, Jack returned its intensity. “Who could? That laughable chamberlain, Montjoy? Too old. The paltry men-at-arms? Too cowardly. The cook? The maids? The potboy? Who would dare challenge their lord in his own household?”

      “What about Lady’s Katherine’s most loving nephew, Fenton?” Brandon sneered. He already knew the answer to that one.

      “Katherine told me he was Fitzhugh’s willing pupil. That sniveling malt worm knew where his future lay, and ’twas not with his aunt.” Jack flung his other boot against the far wall. “Of course, things changed the moment Fitzhugh dropped dead.”

      Brandon released a long breath. “At least, we know that Lady Katherine didn’t poison her last husband. God’s teeth, Jack! I wouldn’t have blamed her one whit if she had!”

      Jack untied his sleeves. “That slandered lady is blameless of the first one’s death, as well. I asked her chambermaid. Lewknor was in his eighties when he married Katherine. She was but fifteen at the time.”

      “A pox of wrinkles! What was her father thinking to shackle her to a dithering graybeard?” For the first time in nine days, Brandon gave a caring thought toward his intended bride.

      “Lewknor’s fortune.” Jack peeled off his brown velvet jacket, then tossed it onto the nearby chest. “Bodiam was originally Lewknor’s castle. The old man didn’t want a bride, he wanted a nursemaid. It took him eighteen months to finally cough his last.”

      “Leaving a rich, young widow.” Brandon resumed his contemplation of the fire.

      “Aye, and an avaricious father. Katherine was wed again before the turning of the year. For all his monstrous ways, Fitzhugh had a vast fortune in land and tenants in this shire. My congratulations, Cavendish. You are marrying a beautiful lady, who owns most of Sussex. ’Tis time you gave some thought to her.”

      Brandon glared over his shoulder at Jack. “What do you mean by that last remark?” he growled.

      Jack narrowed his eyes. “’Tis high time you pay court to your future wife. In the past week you have barely spoken to her save for courtesy.”

      Brandon tightened his fingers around his wine cup. “’Tis because I cannot get a word in edgewise with you singing, jabbering or composing rhymes to her,” he muttered.

      Jack hurled one of his stockings at Brandon. The smelly article hit him on the back of the neck. “I have been speaking and singing for you, you hedgepig. Remember? I have been wooing that innocent lady in your stead, while you go prancing off behind hedges with her comely cousin. ’Tis time to bring this charade to an end.”

      “Before you fall in love with Lady Katherine yourself?” Brandon

Скачать книгу