Midsummer's Knight. Tori Phillips

used by her first two husbands. She does not deserve that fate a third time. In fact, I gave her my oath, in your name, that you would not.”

      Brandon spun around. “The devil take you, Stafford! I would never hurt her, no matter what. You should know that!”

      “Not with your hands, no, but what about your heart?” he asked from the depths of the bed. “And what about your children? When do you plan to surprise her with them? Think on that.”

      “Aye, I will.” Brandon set the cup down on a stool, then pulled his heavy wool cloak from the peg.

      Jack hitched himself up on his elbows. “How now, man? You need not go wake her, and tell her your secrets this minute. Tomorrow will suffice. She’ll need a good night’s sleep, before you reveal who you really are, then spring two nine-year-olds upon her.”

      “I will tell her about Belle and Francis in my own good time, and ’twill not be at breakfast—on that you may lay a winning wager.” Brandon fumbled for his golden brooch that held the cloak together, then swore under his breath when he recalled where it had gone.

      Jack’s frown penetrated the chamber’s semidarkness. “Where are you going? ’Tis near midnight.”

      “To the devil, for I am in hell already.” He flung open the door.

      Jack flopped back against the pillows. “Give him my regards, and don’t fall off the wall walk. ’Twould be a nasty swim in that stinking moat. I bid you a pleasant evening’s stroll.”

      “You were begot between two fishmongers!”

      “And shut the door behind you. The draft is bone chilling.”

      Brandon slammed it with a resounding thud.

      The night guard on the northern battlements gave a startled nod as Brandon stalked past him. The half-moon hung in the dark bowl of the night, and an errant cloud teased about the diamond points of a thousand sparkling stars. Brandon drew to a halt at the center of the walkway, directly over the giant winches that raised and lowered the portcullis. Resting his arms on the chest-high wall, he stared unseeing at the black silhouette of the home park forest.

      I am a very knave and my lying tongue will double back upon itself, and choke me. Aye, and a good riddance too! Brandon gnawed his inner cheek. What a hell broth he had brewed by this simple-seeming deceit! Hadn’t his good mother told him that liars are always trapped within the web of their own making? Now he strangled in it.

      What was he going to do? Jack was not the only one who had lost his heart where he least expected. Jack still had an ounce of his wit about him. For himself, Brandon had refused to mark each passing day as one closer to his wedding. Instead, he pretended he was on a straw-hatted holiday in the company of too-fair a maiden.

      Kinswoman to my new wife! What a lack-witted dolt I am! I do not have half as much brains as earwax! And what will I do after I am married to Katherine, when I must face each new day with Miranda’s shining presence on my left hand? Come, hot tongs and cruel spikes, sear me for I am on the rack now.

      Miranda! Her image swam up in his mind’s eye. Just today he noted how the early June sunlight caught the many different shades of red and gold in her hair, creating a vision most pleasing to the eye. How could he bed the shyer cousin, and not dream that it was Miranda he held in his arms in the dark of night? His marriage vows would be a lie, even worse than the one he was living now.

      Nay, for the sake of his soul, and for the loyalty his honor compelled him to give to Katherine, he must send away the tempting cousin as soon as the wedding feast was over. Jack could take her back to Henry’s court. Miranda would have no dearth of suitors there within a fortnight. Brandon gritted his teeth. The court—where far too many hot-blooded men had far too much time on their hands. Where Miranda’s good virtue would not last a month. The bored nobles needed a good war to occupy their lusty minds.

      Send Miranda to a nunnery? Brandon grimaced in the dark. God help the abbess who had her for a novice! Nay, the lady was as unlikely for the nunnery as his brother was to become a monk—which, thanks to a French angel named Celeste, he hadn’t. But the nut and core of the argument still remained. Miranda must go. As her new kinsman, the most honorable thing he could do would be to set her up at court with a goodly dowry. ’Twould be for the best that she marry.