Tori Phillips by Midsummer's Knight Page B

stared at Katherine.
    Miranda followed the direction of his look. “Oh? The wind blows in that direction now, does it?” She smiled with a perverse pleasure. “Does my cousin please you, Sir John? Do you think she will make Sir Brandon a good wife?”
    “She will make him—” Brandon caught himself before his true thoughts slipped out “—a wealthy man,” he finished. He sought solace in his wine cup.
    “Indeed?” Miranda regarded him with a smug expression playing about her full, luscious lips. “Methought my Lord Cavendish was heir to a large estate in the north.”
    “He is,” Brandon snapped, staring at the bottom of his empty cup. “But a man can never be too rich.” Weep, my good mother, for the lies I must weave for blasted honor’s sake.
    Miranda lifted the jug beside her, and poured them both more of the sweetened drink. “And do you think my cousin will make Sir Brandon a happy man?”
    She will render me stark, staring mad within twelve months. Aloud, Brandon replied, “I am no soothsayer, mistress. I have no idea what their marriage will be like. Only time will tell.”
    “Just so, my lord.” Removing her coif, Miranda shook her head. A tumbling waterfall of red-gold cascaded over her shoulders. “Your pardon, Sir John, but this coif pinches, and I am beginning to get a headache. Your move, I believe.” Her eyes glittered.
    Knotting his hand into a fist under the table, Brandon dug his nails deep into his palms. His move? Don’t ask me what I would move to do, delectable chit. ’Tis a wonder I don’t sweep this table clear of the pieces, and lay you down right here. Why couldn’t she keep her hair covered like every other respectable spinster? His fingers itched to comb through those tresses that dangled so enticingly near.
    With a low groan, Brandon pushed back his chair and rose abruptly. “Pray excuse me, Mistress Miranda. I must attend an urgent call of nature.”
    She smiled up at him. “Then you have my leave. But hurry back, my lord, before your strategy grows cold.”
    “Never fear on that score, mistress,” he growled. “My thoughts are always hot. Indeed, they burn me up.” Turning quickly, he strode out of the hall toward the nearest garderobe. Her laughter followed him, echoing down the corridor.
    Wrapped in his own dark brooding, Brandon failed to see Montjoy until he bumped headlong into him. The old man stumbled backward, and would have fallen, had not Brandon caught him in time.
    “Your pardon, steward,” Brandon apologized. “I was lost in my thoughts.”
    Montjoy drew himself up to the top of his frail height. “The passage is dark, my lord.”
    “Aye, but not enough to warrant my blindness. Are you well?”
    Montjoy sniffed. “I am never fully well in my joints, my lord, especially on such a vile night as this.” He sighed deeply. “’Tis a cross I must bear alone.”
    Brandon hid his grin behind his hand. The castle servants called the poor man, Melancholy Montjoy, and, unfortunately, the name was most appropriate.
    “To save your steps, and the pain in your joints, is there some office I can perform for you?” Once he was lord of Bodiam, Brandon decided he would settle Montjoy in dignified retirement.
    The steward bowed gravely. “I am unworthy of your kind attention, my lord. However, if it is not too much trouble, would you inform my mistress that Sir Fenton Scantling has arrived?”
    The shock of Montjoy’s announcement hit Brandon with the force of a mailed fist in his gut. “Scantling? Here? Now?”
    Montjoy’s heavy lids flickered. “You know my Lord Scantling?”
    “Aye, at court.” Brandon glanced over his shoulder into the hall. No one seemed to have heard Montjoy. “Where is Fenton now?”
    “In the antechamber, my lord. He is much covered with mud and the filth of the road, and...”
    At that moment, the subject in question appeared at the top of the entry stairs. Scantling’s long cloak ran with rainwater, creating a series of