Her Wicked Ways (14 page)

With a muttered curse, he turned and strode from the well. Damn Stratham. Fox refused to lose Miranda to him. His extortion and corrupt election processes were bad enough.

But maybe she wouldn’t want Stratham. Last night, she’d danced and laughed with him. Not Stratham, not some London fancy-pants.
Fox
.

He walked to the edge of the yard. Farmland rolled away beyond the fence. His farmland. June was aging and the crops were way behind. Too behind. He pushed the worry away. He couldn’t control the weather. He could, however, control his own actions. And he needed action.

He glanced back at Stratham and Miranda strolling through the yard, now heading toward the orchard. Then he looked down at himself. They weren’t his worst clothes, but he looked like a serf next to Stratham with his tailored coat and intricately wound cravat. Hell, Fox wasn’t even
wearing
a cravat. He touched his throat and felt the moisture there. He was also dirty and sweaty.

Not the finest picture to present to one’s lady, but he couldn’t afford to wait until properly attired. Furthermore, if he wasn’t mistaken, Miranda had looked at him at the well with anything but contempt.

Fox walked toward the orchard. He crested the slight slope that blocked the view of most of the apple trees from the yard and paused. Stratham was leaving. He’d just bent over her hand—and probably slobbered all over it, the lecherous sod—and she waved him off with a smile.

Did Fox need to rush down there now? Looking like he did? The threat was gone. For now.

And then he heard it. A high-pitched cry down the hill to his right. The water hole!

Miranda had heard it to, too. She looked around for a source. But then she didn’t know the property very well and was likely unaware of the small pond.

Another screech spurred Fox into action. He ran down the hill and called out, “Miranda, this way!”

She hitched up her skirt and followed him as he sprinted toward the sound of the child’s cries. Flora nearly doubled him over as she came through the shrubbery and slammed into his chest. “Oh, Fox! It’s Clara. She’s drowning!”

Fox grabbed the girl by the upper arms to steady her. “Go fetch Mrs. Gates. Go!” He let Flora loose and she tore up the hill.

Miranda had caught up to him and they ran the last few yards to the water together. Several children were standing on the bank. Philip swam out to a flailing Clara.

“He’s too slow.” Fox pulled off his boots. He dived into the water, knowing from experience it was deeper here than on the opposite side. Stretching his arms and legs, he swam out to Clara, quickly passing Philip who had paused to catch his breath.

In another moment he grabbed the girl under her arms. “Are you all right?”

She nodded furiously, water flying in every direction from her sodden hair.

Fox glanced at the bank where the children were collected and then to the opposite shore. It would be easier to carry her from the water on the shallow side. “I’m going to take you to the other bank. Just hold on to my arm.” He positioned her on her back and secured his right arm across her chest and under her arms. She clung to his arm with the strength of five children. As he swam, he saw Miranda circuiting the pond to meet them on the other bank.

His feet met the ground. He swept Clara into his arms and walked the last several feet.

“Mrs. Gates!” Miranda waved her arms wildly. Fox turned to see the older woman hurrying along the side of the pond with a bundle of toweling.

Nearly to shore, Fox struck something solid. Pain sliced into his left ankle and he slipped. Clara shrieked, Miranda dove forward to catch her, and he fell to his knees.

Miranda, now calf-deep in water, clutched Clara before directing her concerned gaze at Fox. “Are you all right?”

Fox nodded despite the excruciating pain in his leg. Mrs. Gates rushed to the edge of the water. Miranda waded out with Clara and delivered her to the fussing headmistress who wrapped the small child in a blanket. “Good heavens, Fox. Thank the Lord you heard them.”

Miranda held out her hand to him. Fox accepted her solicitation and got to his feet. They made their way to dry land, her fingers never leaving his.

She pointed to the ground and, much to his disappointment, dropped his hand. “Sit.” Then she turned to Mrs. Gates. “Go ahead and take Clara back to the manor. I’ll help Fox.”

Fox sat down next to where Mrs. Gates had dropped the toweling. The headmistress’s face was drawn, her expression somewhere between fury and extreme relief. She glanced at Fox’s ankle. “I’ll see about a poultice for the cut on your leg.” Still clutching Clara to her chest, Mrs. Gates hurried away, pausing only to herd the rest of the children toward the house.

Miranda knelt beside him. “Let me see.”

He stretched out his left leg, his ankle throbbing. She gently pulled his stocking off, her fingers grazing his flesh. He watched her closely, almost forgetting the pain in his ankle amidst her devoted attention.

She gingerly dabbed at his wound with a square of toweling. “Philip told me what happened. He and Bernard tied a rope—I’m guessing the rope from the well—to a tree branch over there and were taking turns swinging into the water.”

Fox turned back to look at the other bank. He saw the telltale rope. Yes, it was from the well. He leaned back, putting his hands palm down behind him. “And they let Clara have a turn.”

“Not exactly. Lisette explained that the other children were wading on this side of the pond. No one noticed Clara going to the rope until she fell into the water.” Miranda sat flat on the ground, still holding the toweling to his leg. “She got out quite far, as you saw.”

Fox remembered the hot summer days of his own childhood. “The little ones always do.”

Miranda raised her brow in that half inquisitive, half challenging way of hers. “You speak from experience?”

He looked at her intently, enjoying this intimate moment. “Yes. Did you have a place to swim? Next to the big oak tree you fell out of perhaps?”

She nodded. “Benfield—my father’s estate outside London—has a large lake. My brother loves to fish.” A shadow flickered in her eyes, just as it had done last night when she’d spoken of her family. She peeked under the toweling at his leg. “We should get this properly cleaned. Can you walk?”

He smiled, enjoying her ministrations. “It’s not so bad.”

Her gaze met his. Sunlight filtered through the still branches of the apple trees and turned her hair to golden silk. Her chignon had come loose, probably as she’d run to the pond, and long waves caressed her shoulders.

“I’m sorry you were hurt. You were wonderful saving Clara.” Her eyes were soft, her mouth set into a sweet smile just for him. “Let me help you up.”

She stood then offered him her hand. He considered pulling her down to sprawl on top of him and kissing her senseless. Damn, he couldn’t think about that, not with wet clothing that would surely advertise his state of arousal. Willing himself to think of something else—which was bloody impossible—he took her hand and used his other palm to push himself up.

She tugged him up until he was standing. In fact, she continued to pull so that he almost crashed into her. He grabbed her waist lest she go tumbling backward.

She blushed a bit. Utterly charming. Then her gaze met his, and he saw a curiosity in her blue-green eyes that matched his own. Her lips parted. He inched forward and lowered his head.

Her breath gusted over his lips as she stepped back. “You can’t kiss me.”

He couldn’t keep the frown from his mouth. “Why not?”

“It isn’t appropriate.”

God, how he wanted to argue that kissing him was far more appropriate than kissing a highwayman! “Why not?”

She pressed her lips together and tilted her head. “You know why not.”

“Then marry me and make it appropriate.”

She laughed unsteadily and gave his upper arm a light tap. “Fox!”

He reached for her, clasping her waist between his hands. “I’m serious. Marry me.”

She stared at him a moment. “I can’t.”

“You absolutely can. I’ll have the banns read on Sunday.”

She shook her head. “My parents would never allow it.” He opened his mouth to interrupt, but she spoke over him. “Nor do I want to. You’re a…friend. That’s all.”

Anger sparked in his belly. He’d wager Stipple’s End and Bassett Manor she’d been about to kiss him. “Tell me you didn’t want me to kiss you.” He leaned forward and brought his cheek a hair’s breadth from hers. “Tell me to leave you alone, and I will. Or, ask me to kiss you, and I’ll make all your dreams come true.”

She was still a moment, and then he felt something stir inside of her, the echo of a sigh, perhaps. Her cheek grazed his. He turned his head to claim her mouth. Her hands closed over his… And pushed them away.

She stepped back once more. Her eyes took on a frigidity quite at odds with the steamy afternoon, and she donned an air of arrogant detachment he hadn’t seen since her first day at Stipple’s End. Alone, her icy stare would have been as effective as another dunk in the pond, but then she spoke and drove the knife in deeper. “What dreams of mine could you possibly bring to pass?”

And there it was. She didn’t remotely consider him as a potential mate. Hell, she didn’t even consider him as a potential lover. The highwayman had one up on him there.

Her refusal cut to the quick, but was it because he needed her money so desperately or because she’d sliced some buried emotion?

He ached to kiss her anyway, show her how good they’d be together, but pride kept him rooted to the ground. Instead, he gave her a lazy, sardonic smile and said, “Looks like you’ll never know.”

Chapter Seven

RAIN battered the windows facing the drive to Stipple’s End. In mute boredom, Miranda focused on the water running down the glass as she awaited the Carmodys’ carriage to fetch her to Birch House.

Her gaze traveled to the clock on the mantel. The Carmodys were at the vicarage today for tea, which is why they even bothered to stop and retrieve her. She could only guess how long she would have to wait.

Ah well, at least she could bide her time in the library.

Miranda took herself to the book-lined room in the back corner of the manor. Tall, diamond-paned windows provided an expansive view of the yard and orchard beyond. One could just make out the watering hole amidst the apple trees.

She tried not to think of the disastrous day over three weeks ago when Fox had nearly kissed her and then proposed marriage. And since Fox now rarely spoke to her—seemed to avoid her company altogether actually—it appeared he had chosen to ignore the occasion as well.

Except if they were truly ignoring it, they would be going on as they had before—as friends. Now awkwardness passed between them, and little else save banalities such as, “Good day” or “Dismal weather we’re having.”

Miranda was sorry for it. She’d come to like Fox. He possessed something that drew her—and almost everyone else—to him. He was attentive, kind, and from what she could tell at the orphanage, fiercely loyal and dedicated to those who depended upon him.

Plus, she constantly wondered what it would have been like to kiss him. And whether he might try again. And if he didn’t, if she might conjure the nerve she never seemed to have trouble summoning with other gentlemen and kiss him.

Where had that daring gone? She’d suffered no qualm about kissing a common highwayman, for goodness sake. But there’d been nothing common about that kiss. A thrill shot up from her toes and spread through her abdomen. Surprisingly, she was almost certain kissing Fox would’ve provoked the same response. Whereas Darleigh had scarcely aroused more than curiosity, both a thief and then a farmer—he was more than that, but she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable at the moment—had actually induced…lust.

“Ah, here you are, Lady Miranda!” Stratham entered, carrying his ivory-tipped walking stick in the air like a staff.

She dragged her focus from Fox to Stratham and was surprised to feel a crest of disappointment in her chest. Because she was raised to be polite, she offered him a smile and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Stratham. Did you enjoy a successful trip to London?”