LITMIR.BIZ

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This was the bridegroom whom the king had chosen for her? Miranda will swoon on the spot when she claps an eye on him.

      “And I am Sir John Stafford, come to bear witness of your joy to the king.” Stafford cleared his throat again.

      Kat looked up fully into the second man’s face. This time her traitorous knees deserted her. She swayed. Moving swiftly, Stafford caught her before Kat collapsed into an undignified heap of petticoats and gowns. With a hint of a smile playing about the corners of his lips, he guided her to one of the high-backed armchairs.

      “Are you well, my lady? Shall I call for your usher?”

      “Nay,” Kat gasped. “My thanks, good sir. I slipped upon the floor. I...er...we take pride in keeping the floor tiles polished with beeswax. How very clumsy of mel” I sound like a complete fool!

      Kat’s cheeks flamed. If Sir Brandon presented a picture of a Greek god come down to her hearth, he paled in comparison to Sir John. Slightly taller than his friend, Stafford’s shoulders filled—nay, strained—the seams of his forest green doublet, as if he would burst out of them at any moment. While Sir Brandon’s voice reminded her of warm honey dripping from the comb, Sir John’s deeper tones promised something more dangerous and exciting.

      The room wavered before her eyes. Kat gripped the arms of the chair. She must get hold of herself. She was no giddy maiden on a May morning, but a woman of nearly thirty years. ’Twas almost the dinner hour. No doubt her dizziness stemmed from hunger.

      Stafford knelt by her chair and took one of her ice-cold hands in his. “Clumsy is not a word I would use to describe you, my lady.” Stafford’s brilliant blue eyes twinkled with open amusement. He brushed his lips lightly across the back of her hand.

      Angels in heaven! What magic is this stranger working upon me? And in full view of my betrothed—no, not my betrothed. Not yet. I am not Kat.

      “I fear I am no lady...” she began, then stopped, realizing how scandalous that must sound.

      Sir John’s smile widened as he continued to hold her clammy hand within his large warm ones. “No lady?” His gaze roved from her eyes, to her shoulders to the outline of her breasts under the plain bodice of her gown. “Your beauty gives the lie to that.”

      Kat’s pulse skittered alarmingly. This man is seducing me in my own hall—before dinner, or even before proper introductions.

      Kat sat up straighter. “I am Mistress Miranda Paige, cousin to the lady of the house.”

      “My loss,” Sir John whispered under his breath.

      Not sure what he meant by that, Kat plunged on with her part. “My Lady Katherine begs your patience, my lords. The suddenness of your arrival has put us all in a whirl. She is above, preparing herself to receive you, Sir Brandon.”

      Poor Miranda! What a shock this handsome gallant was going to be to her! Kat prayed that her cousin would keep her wits about her upon first introduction.

      “A masterpiece of perfection takes time to prepare. ’Tis made all the more desirable by the wait,” Sir Brandon replied, shooting a quick glance to his companion.

      “Just so,” Sir John murmured. After pressing his lips on the sensitive skin of her palm, he released Kat’s hand.

      Like a lark caught in a snare, her heart fluttered wildly within her breast. An uneasy silence settled over them. Kat thanked her foresight for having Columbine play her lute. The girl’s sweet music filled the gap in the conversation. Biting the inside of her lips, Kat struggled to think of something clever to say. Neither Lewknor nor Fitzhugh had bothered to pay her court. She had never set eyes on either of her husbands until they had met at the church door to take their wedding vows. During thirteen years of loveless marriages, the opportunity for witty conversation and harmless flirtation had never presented itself—until now. Sweet Saint Anne, help me!

      “I must confess, Mistress Paige, I did not expect to find so agreeable an interior to your lady’s castle when we first rode through its gate.” Sir Brandon surveyed the room with approval in his expression. “A fortress on the outside, and a pleasant bower within.”

      Kat released a pent-up breath. At least, the man—her betrothed, she had to remind herself—had given her a blessed opening. “Yes, I am...we are quite pleased with the result of the plaster and paint over the rough walls. The linen-fold carving on the paneling is my...cousin’s especial pride. Much work has been done since my...my lady’s husband died.” Careful—watch every word. Miranda! How long does it take to change your gown?

      “Ah, yes, I had heard that the Lady Katherine was married before,” Sir John remarked with the suddenness of a duck snapping at a water beetle.

      Kat wrinkled her nose. “Twice,” she answered shortly. Why spoil her appetite for dinner, or the good company of these worthy gentlemen, with wretched thoughts of Fitzhugh?

      “And were they happy matches?” Sir John persisted.

      “Nay, my lord, they were not. I pray you, for my lady’s sake, do not mention her past husbands.” Have done with them for once and all!

      “Good day, my lords, and welcome to my...oh, squealing piglets!” Miranda stood transfixed in the doorway, staring at the guests. She flushed a charming rosy hue.

      Miranda looks ten years younger!

      Kat hastened to her side. She clasped her cousin’s cold hand. “My lords, I present to you the Lady Katherine Fitzhugh.”

      A startled look passed between the men, then, as one, they swept off their caps and bowed low.

      “Leaping trout!” Miranda moaned softly. She gripped Kat’s hand like grim death.

      “Does heaven weep for loneliness since you flew down to earth, sweet lady?” Sir Brandon gushed.

      “Your servant, my lady,” his companion added in a brisk tone.

      “Say something!” Kat hissed at her cousin.

      “Welcome to Bodiam,” Miranda chirruped.

      “You have said that already,” Kat whispered, guiding her transfixed cousin closer to the men. Don’t bolt, Miranda , she silently begged. Please do not give the game away just yet.

      “Wa-was your journey long?” Miranda looked from one man to the other. “Which one is Sir Brandon?” she whispered to Kat out of the side of her mouth.

      Kat spied a ghostly smile flit across Sir John’s lips. He must have heard Miranda’s question.

      Sir John poked Sir Brandon’s rib cage with his elbow.

      “I—I... fair lady, I have the honor of being the eldest son of Sir Thomas Cavendish, Earl of Thornbury. I am Sir Brandon Cavendish. I bring you the greetings and good wishes of my family and of our great king, Henry, who has made my present happiness possible.” Sir Brandon bowed low for a fourth time.

      Kat winced inwardly as she watched Cavendish dive toward the floor again. Hang it all, my betrothed is full of foppery!

      “Oh!” Miranda squeaked. She turned a little pale.

      “Do him courtesies,” Kat prompted in Miranda’s ear. “And for the love of all that is holy, don’t faint.”

      “’Tis I who am honored, Sir Brandon.” Miranda sank into a full curtsy. She remained frozen in that position.

      Sir Brandon dropped to one knee before her and took her hand in his. “The honor of your fair hand is a gift I shall cherish all my days. Believe me, sweetest lady, when I tell you that I shall ever remember this moment in my heart and in my dreams.” He kissed each of Miranda’s fingers in turn.

      Kat happened to glance at Sir John and caught him rolling his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling. Aye, Sir Brandon’s greeting was a bit thick—like butter oozing on a slice of hot bread—but his words certainly had quite an effect upon Miranda. Kat wondered if the two of them were going

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