Innocent Fire (23 page)

Bragg thought he did understand. She had been raped. Brutally, probably many times. He wanted to know all the details, for some damn reason. He wanted to share what had happened with her, but he refrained from asking. She was so gaunt and fatigued right now, and he wanted to protect and shelter her. He wanted to take away her grief and shame. The urge to make love to her was overwhelming. He felt that if he could take her in his arms, he could stroke and kiss away everything that had happened. He felt that once he buried himself deep inside her, he could remove Chavez’s mark, his memory. He could claim her, truly, as his own.

But Miranda had always been afraid of sex, and now she was probably even more afraid. He loved her. He would never hurt her—he had meant that when he said it. He wouldn’t ever force himself on her. He wanted her to want him, too. He would wait. He would comfort and care for her, cherish her, and they would start their lives anew, from this day forward. After all, making love was only one part of a relationship, and in this case it would be the bonus, he rationalized. Then he heard himself and laughed aloud. He sounded like some romantic fool. Certainly not like the crude rake, Derek Bragg, who had been taking women with the slightest provocation since he was sixteen.

The camp was quiet and everyone asleep, exhausted, especially the captives, who were a sorely abused, gaunt lot. Bragg approached his bedroll silently, and a soft smile crossed his features when he saw Miranda curled up there, on her side. He dropped down beside her.

She immediately turned over and sat up, facing him.

“Waiting for me?” he teased softly.

He wasn’t sure, but he had the feeling she blushed. “Yes.”

He raised a brow, absurdly pleased. “We both need to get a good night’s sleep,” he said, trying to be straight-faced. “But…”

“Oh, Derek, I meant…what I mean…”

He chuckled, sitting beside her. Putting his arm around her, he pulled her close. “I know what you meant, princess.”

Miranda looked at him, her face inches from his. “Are you sleeping here, too?”

“Yes,” he said. “Isn’t this my bedroll?”

“But…” She swallowed nervously.

Bragg smiled and slid onto his side, pulling her down into the curve of his body. “Don’t tell me you’d be more comfortable sleeping alone?” He hugged her gently.

She sighed. “No.”

He pulled up the blanket and tried not to feel so much—so flooded with tenderness and caring that it made his eyes ridiculously moist. Worse, he tried not to feel the warm softness of her body, her little derriere firmly nestled against his belly, her silken hair teasing his chest and face.

“Derek?”

“Um?”

“What happens after San Antonio? After we drop off Bianca and the other captives?”

He hesitated. “How would it sound, Miranda, if it was just you and me? I want to take you up to the Pecos, into the country I was raised in. It’s peaceful. You’ll have time to…heal, and I’ll never let you out of my sight.” He kissed the back of her head.

“To your ranch?”

“There’s nothing there, princess, just water and trees and meadows. But yes, I did mean that area.”

“That sounds…fine.”

“Do you mean it?” He felt tense asking the question. He wanted to take her there so badly, and his arms tightened a bit around her.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad,” he said quickly. “Now why don’t we both get some sleep? I have last watch.”

To his surprise, he fell asleep after only an hour or so, and his dreams were full of the woman he held in his arms.

Miranda felt as if everyone was watching as they rode into San Antonio, and everyone was.

Of course, she realized it would be impossible for twenty Rangers and almost as many freed captives not to attract the notice of everyone on the streets and in the shops. People lined the boardwalks, and soon there was cheering and hollering. A man ran alongside them, asking for details, but the Rangers just grinned and answered cryptically. Bragg said nothing, but his hold on her was warm and reassuring.

He took a room at the hotel and went upstairs with her. “I have to make my report, princess, but on my way back I’ll bring you some clothes. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping together for everything we need.” He flashed her a warm smile. His golden eyes were so tender these days. She knew he felt sorry for her, and it made her feel sorry for herself.

“Take your time,” she said, and she looked longingly at the bed. Sweet Jesus! How long had it been? The endless riding, the week in captivity…no! She was not going to think about that.

“I’ll have a bath sent up. I’ll see if I can’t talk one of the girls into lending you a wrapper.”

Miranda smiled at him gratefully. When he left, she wondered what had happened to the gruff, crude, hard
man she had met in Natchez. Then she knew she was fooling herself. She remembered how he had gone after Chavez. She still didn’t know what he had done after Pecos had led her away, but she was sure it had been awful, and she didn’t want to know. She climbed onto the bed and lay thinking about her husband.

She also marveled at herself. Who would have thought that the daughter of an earl would become what she was right now? Clad in buckskins, just freed from Indians, married to a half-breed Ranger—good God! And Bragg had told her the kind of life they were headed for. They would live in a wickiup, like his people, the Mescalero. They would hunt and harvest their own food, make their own clothes. It would be a very primitive existence. He didn’t say it was forever. They didn’t discuss the future.

For some reason, he wanted to take her up to his valley, as he called it, and live there for a while. She truly didn’t mind. The JB was gutted. It was hers, and now Bragg’s, because he was her husband, but she didn’t want to go back there. Maybe later, in the future. She didn’t want Bragg to leave her alone. He was resigning from the Rangers, and she was glad. She knew it was selfish, but she didn’t care. She understood now how much a woman in this land needed a man to protect her. She never, ever, wanted to have to live again through a horror like that week as Chavez’s prisoner.

Miranda had no tears left. She rolled onto her side and shut her eyes, but the memories were strong, vivid. They refused to leave. They haunted the back of her mind constantly and gave her nightmares. But there was always Bragg to turn to, to hold her, to say soft, sweet words and chase the awful dreams away. She had gotten used to sleeping with him, and she didn’t think she’d ever want to sleep alone again.

Her bath came, and with it a servant bearing a flimsy wrapper of white wool trimmed with pink ribbons. She ordered a huge meal from the woman, thinking that if Derek came back he would be hungry. Then she soaked for a long time in the tub. After she had washed and dried off, she threw the robe over her bare skin. It wasn’t sheer, but it seemed to mold itself to her lithe contours. Miranda
didn’t notice. It felt so good to be out of buckskins—at least out of those particular buckskins.

She was eating heartily when Bragg returned, tossing some packages onto the bed. “Eating without me?” he asked coming up to her and plopping a kiss on her mouth before she could blink. She was surprised—he hadn’t kissed her since that time at the stream, days ago. And…she was pleased.

“There’s enough for two,” she managed, her body tingling deliciously for a moment.

“I can see that.” He grinned, then sat down opposite her and stared.

“How did it go?” She began to serve him since he was just sitting there.

“Miranda,” he began, then he looked uncertain.

She gazed at him calmly. “What’s wrong? Oh! Another assignment?” She tried not to show her intense disappointment.

“No, nothing like that. Damn!” He dug into his pocket and produced a small padded box.

“What’s that?” she asked, feeling foolish.

“It’s not much,” he said, grimacing. “I’m not a rich man, not like John. In fact, except for my land, I’m downright poor. But…here.”

Miranda took the box and stared at him. “Derek, you are rich. You own all of John’s properties now.”

He waved at her. “They’re yours. Are you going to open it?”

She suddenly smiled. They would discuss that issue later. She opened the box. Inside was an amethyst pendant shaped like a heart, hanging from a delicate gold chain. “It’s beautiful!” she said, meaning it. She was truly touched.

“It’s the exact color of your eyes,” he said, watching her.

“Would you?” she asked, smiling, standing. She stepped over to him, lifting her hair and turning her back.

He sucked in his breath. He couldn’t help it. He wanted her as he’d never wanted any other woman, and here she was, clad in such a lightweight, clinging robe, and it dawned on him that she had nothing on beneath it. Instead of looking at the nape of her neck, he found himself
staring at her firm little behind, and his hands, of their own volition, settled on her hips. She gasped.

He hated the way she stiffened defensively. He quickly fastened the chain around her neck. He owed the jeweler just about every skin he could trap this winter, but he didn’t care. He hated trapping, but he would do it. He wished he could have gotten her diamonds and rubies.

She turned to face him, smiling. “Thank you, again. I love it.”

He wanted to tell her he loved her, but he had never said those words before, and he knew she didn’t love him back. He just couldn’t tell her, not yet. “Thank me with a kiss,” he said instead.

She looked surprised.

“My kisses aren’t so bad. In fact, I’ve never met a woman who didn’t like them. Even you.”

She colored faintly. “Derek, I…”

“I only want a kiss,” he said gently, slipping his arms around her. “I know you need time, and I’m giving it to you. But kisses don’t hurt. If you relax, I’ll bet you like it.”

Tears moistened her eyes. “You’ve been so kind.”

“Not too bad for a savage barbarian, huh?” He smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled.

She put her hands around his neck. “I take that back.”

“You can’t,” he murmured, and lowered his face.

She met his lips lightly, their mouths just barely brushing. It was so hard not to tighten his hold, not to deepen the kiss, not to throw her onto the bed and take her. But he didn’t. He hated her fear. He wanted her love. He flicked out his tongue to taste her lower lip, and she trembled. He hoped it was from pleasure. He was hard with agony. He pulled away with difficulty.

There was a knock on the door, and he was relieved or disappointed—he didn’t know which. He admitted the boy who had brought fresh water. Miranda stepped modestly behind the table as the boy emptied the cold water, tossing it out the window, and refilled the tub. Bragg handed him a penny and began to strip. He reflected ruefully that hot water was not going to help his condition.

Realizing that she was watching him, he smiled. She
caught his eye and blushed, but stopped him. “What are you doing?”

He was amused. “What does it look like?”

“I don’t want that wound wet.”

“Oh ho. Back to being bossy, are we? I’m filthy. It’s healed up enough.”

“Derek, no.” She put her hands on her hips and stared at him.

He laughed, delighted with her wifely demeanor. “Fine. Then you’ll bathe me.”

This time her color was really high. “You can bathe yourself,” she said.

“Miranda, if I have to bathe myself, I’m climbing in that tub.” He meant it. He had really wanted a bath, too, until this moment. He didn’t care that a sponge bath from Miranda would be torture. He wanted to feel her hands all over his body.

“Let me see the wound,” she said, a touch stiffly.

He began to pull his pants down. She inhaled sharply, but he didn’t care. Women had always exclaimed and marveled over his physique and his manhood, which he knew was large. He wanted to impress her. He would certainly impress her now, when he was huge with need for her. He wondered if he would excite her. He stepped out of his pants and grinned.

She stared briefly before averting her gaze and pushing him around. He looked over his shoulder and saw that she was staring at his buttocks, not his thigh. He tried not to laugh. He was throbbing. “Well?”

“I just don’t think you should take a bath,” she said, flustered.

“Shall I sit or lie down?”

“Derek, I don’t want to bathe you.”

“Dammit,” he burst out.

“All right,” she said, glaring. “Fine. But wrap this around your waist, please.”

He took the towel but turned to give her another view as he casually complied. Of course she had her back to him and was wetting the sponge. He sighed, straddled the chair, then closed his eyes as she washed his back.

Her touch was pure heaven, especially as he felt her
anger recede, replaced by a tense, trembling hand. Was it fear? Disgust? He didn’t think so. He thought it was desire, even if she didn’t know it.

“Turn around.”

He obeyed. He watched her wash his arms, his shoulders, his chest. he was having trouble breathing evenly, and having even more trouble not grabbing and kissing her. “That’s enough,” he finally said gruffly.

She looked surprised. “What about your legs?”

He was afraid he’d embarrass both of them if she continued. “I’ll do it myself.” He took the sponge and turned away from her. He debated finding a whore for the night. It had been so long. Then he glanced at her, picking up a wet towel from the floor, and his heart twisted.

I will court her, he thought, and I will wait.

“Why are you looking like that?” Bragg asked.

Miranda smiled, still studying the pyramid-shaped structure. “I just never imagined there would come a day when my husband would build us a wickiup to live in.”

Bragg laughed. “To be honest, princess, I never thought I’d see the day when I’d build my wife one. You see, this is women’s work.”

“Impossible,” she gasped. The wickiup was twelve feet high, and about eight feet in diameter. It consisted of eight very stout poles of juniper, stuck in holes in the ground and attached at the top. The sides were woven with brush. Miranda didn’t see how any woman could possibly build such a structure.

Bragg grabbed her and planted a firm, quick kiss on her mouth, taking her by surprise. Just as quickly, he released her. “But no squaw is as small and thin as you.” He grew serious. “I’ll spend the afternoon hunting, and we’ll have this covered with hides in no time.”

Miranda looked at him. He seemed to be lost in thought now. His kisses took her by surprise. She had never even guessed that he was an affectionate man. Yet he seemed hard-pressed to go for long without touching her abstractedly, patting her shoulder, squeezing her hand, or fingering her hair. What a contradiction he was.

“Follow me,” Bragg said.

They walked over to their packs and supplies, unloaded from their pack horse and covered by a tarp. Bragg rummaged through, found what he was looking for, and tossed Miranda a few leather pouches. “What’s this?” she asked, curious.

“Look and see,” he said, squatting by their supplies and grinning.

Miranda opened up one of the small pouches and gasped. It was full of seeds. “Derek—we’ll have a garden.”

“You bet,” he said. “And we should get it planted as soon as we can.”

Miranda looked around. The site Derek had chosen was a brief distance from a broad, sparkling creek. A small meadow filled with April’s first blooms was bordered by forest. He had built the wickiup in a cluster of oak and juniper, where it blended naturally and unobtrusively into the landscape. “Over there,” she said, pointing. “How will we clear it?”

“Easy. First thing tomorrow I’ll burn a section, then plow it for you. We’ll be planted by tomorrow night.”

Miranda gave him a smile.

“Before I go hunting, princess, I want to give you a lesson in shooting.” He beckoned. Miranda walked over, and he put a light hand on her shoulder and led her away from the wickiup. He left her to set up a target, a log standing upright on the ground. He paced back to her, took the Colt out of his holster, and emptied it of bullets. “Watch carefully.”

He showed her how to load, then unloaded it again and had her do it. It was simple. “Good.” He smiled. “Now, just stand nice and relaxed, sight the target, aim, and squeeze.” He handed her the gun.

Miranda felt nervous. She had never held a gun before, much less fired one. She swallowed, pointed the gun at the target, sighted it, and fired. The recoil wasn’t too bad. “How did I do?”

Derek looked at her. “Well, you only missed by a mile. Did you aim?”

“I most certainly did!”

He stood behind her, holding his hand on top of hers. “Aim carefully,” he said, his voice in her ear.

His breath tickled her neck. His body was warm. Where his knees were bent, they touched the backs of her thighs. His chest was against her back. She was very aware of him, and it was distracting.

“Miranda?”

She sighted and fired. The slight kickback pushed her into his warm hardness. “Did I hit it?” she asked hopefully.

“Not quite,” he drawled. “How’s your eyesight, anyway?”

“That bad?”

“No, not too bad,” he lied. “Again. Come on, we’re wasting time.”

Miranda tried to ignore the intimacy of how they were standing. This time, as she aimed, he put one hand around her waist, the other on her hand holding the Colt, and he told her to wait. He leaned into her, his face on a level with hers, trying to see how she was sighting the target.

“Jesus, Miranda! You’re off by ten yards.”

“To the right or left?”

“Left.”

She adjusted her aim.

“Too much, sweetheart. Just a tiny fraction. There you go. Now, don’t shake when you fire…”

She fired and missed. “I’m sorry,” she cried.

“It’s all right.” he said, straightening behind her. But he didn’t move away.

“I don’t think I’m going to be much of a markswoman.”

“Yes you are,” he told her. “You’re going to practice every afternoon for an hour. Try it again.”

He stood there with her for what seemed hours, but she never once hit the target. Finally, he told her they’d done enough for the day. She stole a glance at him. He looked a bit displeased. He had been incredibly patient. And she wanted to please him. She felt miserable at being such a poor student. She was downcast.

“Don’t worry,” he told her as they strolled back to the wickiup. He put his arm around her shoulders, squeezing. “You’ll be the best shot in west Texas by the time I get through with you.”

“I doubt it.”

He gave her a look. “Why don’t you start up some bread?” He paused. “Do you know how to make bread?”

“Of course,” she said indignantly. “I watched Elena.”

Bragg smiled. This should be interesting. “What a tenderfoot I have for a wife!”

“How do we bake it?”

“Easy,” he said cheerfully, picking up a rifle. “In the fire. You work on that dough. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Miranda watched him stride off into the woods, on foot, with a kind of animal grace. She smiled. They had spent so much time together in the last few days. She already missed him.