Midsummer's Knight

Miranda licked her own lips, which felt as parched and cracked as empty wineskins. “In due time, my lord, in due time. I am an honest woman, and would wait until after the wedding vows are spoken before any bedding is done.”

Sir Brandon pulled himself upright, though his arm still held her waist. “You speak the truth, dear lady, and remind me of my manners. I fear I have become too lax at court. Pray forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my lord. I am glad to see that the bridegroom is so eager for the wedding day.”

“He’d better be,” Sir Brandon growled under his breath.

His changed tone jarred Miranda. “My lord?”

“Nothing, my love. ’Tis but a vow I have made. On your wedding day, your bridegroom will be all that you deserve—and more.” He caressed her cheek with his forefinger, then brushed a stray tendril of her hair from her forehead.

A light crunching sound on the shell path interrupted further conversation and action. Violet, one of the chambermaids, dashed up to them, and bobbed a curtsy.

“Mistress...my Lady Kat,” she babbled. “My...your cousin suggests that the air has grown too cold for dallying in the garden, and she prays that you join her and my Lord Stafford by the fire in the hall.” The girl paused for breath. “Are you dallying, mistress?”

Sir Brandon stood up and stretched. His height towered over the young maid. “Not anymore.” His teeth flashed white in the rising moon’s light. He offered Miranda his arm. “Shall we join your vigilant cousin, my lady?”

Standing, Miranda brushed down her lavender skirts. “Aye, methinks ’twould be a good idea. Thank you, Violet. Tell my cousin that we are coming.”

The girl curtsied again, winked at Miranda, then ran off into the shadows giggling like a magpie.

Sir Brandon’s lips twitched. “Sweet Katherine, is there some malady that effects your servants?”

Miranda slipped her arm within his. “How so, my lord?” Together they strolled slowly down the path in Violet’s scampering wake.

Sir Brandon rubbed his chin before answering. “Ever since our arrival at your home, all your maids have taken to winking, giggling and giving each other sly looks and elbow prods. Tell me, are my face and form worthy of their mirth?”

Night’s welcome darkness hid Miranda’s grin. “Nay, my lord. I suspect ’tis because we have so few men around here. When you and my Lord Stafford arrived, accompanied by such a handsome army of retainers, our maids did not know what to do. Please forgive their behavior. They are simple country girls at heart.”

Sir Brandon unlatched the wicket gate in the yew hedge and held it open for Miranda to pass through. “That brings me to another question, sweet lady. I have noticed that all your maidservants have the names of flowers. Daisy, Pansy, Rosemary, and now, this one is Violet. Pray how is this so? Were all their mothers gardeners?”

Miranda couldn’t control her sudden burst of laughter. “I am sure you must find it puzzling, my lord. Nay, originally they were called Mary, Anne or Margaret. ’Tis understandable when you know that the three parishes hereabouts are Saint Mary, Saint Anne and Saint Margaret.”

“I see,” Sir Brandon said, but in such a manner that Miranda realized he was as confused as before.

“When Fitzhugh died, my cousin dismissed all his retainers. Instead, she took in as servants many daughters of the poor farmers in the area.”

Pausing midstep, Sir Brandon looked down at her. “You say your cousin did this? Not you?”

“I...” Miranda could have bitten her tongue in two. “My cousin has acted as my housekeeper for many years, Sir Brandon. She knows much better than I how to run the estate, so I am pleased to let her do it ’Twas her idea to rename the girls for all the flowers of the garden, instead of calling them Mary One or Mary Two. Much less confusing.”

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.