Lord of Ice (33 page)

There was a magical quality to their escape that night, the high, full moon glittering on the packed snow as the fast, light sleigh flew behind the galloping horses, whisking almost soundlessly over the white highway that stretched for miles ahead of them in a corridor between broad, snowcapped hills and whispering woods. She sat near him on the driver’s seat, sharing her warmth beneath the lap rug, but they did not speak. They did not need to. They
knew
.

Half standing in the driver’s seat, his greatcoat billowing behind him, he drove the horses on with vigor, miles and miles of the Bath Road falling away beneath them while the wind stung his cheeks. His mood was strange: a fierce joy infused with all the power of his will, and an aching to be one with her always. The moment he had seen Crispin Sherbrooke trying to kiss Miranda, absolute, unflinching conviction had exploded within him, blowing all his uncertainty and hesitation of the past few days to smithereens. She would not wait forever for him to make his move, nor should she have to, after all that she had done for him. She had been steadfast, reaching out to him again and again, coming back to hold out another chance for him to take her hand each time he had shoved her away. Her patience had gentled him just like a wild horse. He glanced at her to make sure she was all right, bundled in her coat and scarf, a few curls flying in the wind behind her, beneath her warm, velvet bonnet. She was keeping her hands warm in the giant fur muff that Alec had given her. She gave him a tremulous smile when he looked at her. Aye, she knew, he thought, turning forward again with a smile, his body thrilling to her nearness.

He had not forgotten the danger to her, of course, though it had not reared its ugly head since the day of her riding “accident.” Just to be safe, he was well armed, but he was not worried because they had slipped away under the cover of darkness, telling no one that they were leaving or where they were going.

Thank God Miranda was not the sort of woman who needed an entourage of servants to accompany her everywhere she went, he thought. He wanted to be totally alone with her to tell her how he felt.

It was a clear night, not overly frigid. The road was good, there was no traffic to slow them, and the full moon gave them light. Thus it took them only four hours to traverse the forty miles from London, past the busy town of Maidenhead, to the village of Littlewick Green. He turned north and drove another two and a half miles, arriving at last at the snowy drive of Bayley House. Damien slowed the horses to a trot as they approached the large, ramshackle house. He sighed to himself as he drew the team to a halt. It still looked like a mausoleum, gleaming in the silvered darkness.

He looped the reins around the holder and turned to her. She was staring at his house.

He waved a vague gesture at the mansion. “Perhaps you cannot tell from here, but it’s rather run down. It’s in a sorry state on the inside. Now that I’ve warned you, would you like to go in?”

She turned to him with great, soulful eyes. “Damien, I cannot stand another second of this suspense. I’m not budging from this seat until you tell me why you’ve brought me here.”

He laughed softly, taken aback by her imploring tone. “Will you take off your bonnet? I want to see your face in the moonlight.”

She withdrew her gloved hands from the muff, but her fingers must have been trembling with her discomfiture. She fumbled with the ribbons. He smiled softly and helped her with them. She took off her hat, whose large brim had shadowed her face. Likewise, he took off his top hat and flicked it into the seat behind them with the baskets of food stores he had hastily packed from the kitchen pantry at Knight House.

Slyly, he reached his hand into the nearest hamper and pulled out a crimson rose that he had swiped from the bouquet in the entrance hall.

He trailed the petals down her cheek, then gave it to her, holding her starry-eyed gaze. Her skin was alabaster in the moon’s white glow; her hair was as dark as shadows. The mother-of-pearl combs in the dark, silky mass of her tresses winked in the illumination of a moonbeam. Miranda swallowed hard, staring somberly at him. He succumbed to a faint smile and wondered if she had any idea how adorable she was even when she wasn’t trying.

“Yes?” she prodded him.

“So impatient,” he chided, running his fingertips along her arm.

“I’ve been exceedingly patient. For me, anyway.”

“You have.” He cupped her cheek in his leather-gloved hand. “I thank you for it.”

“Please,” she squeaked, tears clouding her eyes. “Just say it, one way or the other, Damien. Please just tell me—”

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you, Miranda.”

She sobbed and started toward him, but he laid his fingertip over her lips, hushing her until he was finished.

“That is why I have decided to turn away all of your suitors, every last one: Ollie, Nigel, Crispin, even Griff. I have decided to keep you for myself. I am sorry if you object, but you see, I cannot do without you. You silly girl, why are you crying?”

She couldn’t seem to speak. Tears streamed down her cheeks like liquid diamonds in the moonlight, and she was staring at him like she would die of love; her face so ardent, so lovely that it summoned up answering tears in him, too, as though the ice in the core of him was melting so fast that it welled up from his very eyes. “I have loved you from the moment you strode into Mr. Reed’s office in your white gloves and schoolgirl braids, your chin up high, ready to take on the world,” he murmured. “I loved you when you tricked those witless lads at the hotel trying to escape me—of all men!”

“I’m sorry about that,” she slipped out with a trembling, penitent smile through her tears.

“Don’t be, my red rose. You could never do anything that requires an apology, and even if you did, I would forgive you without your having to ask.”

“You would?” she whispered.

“Yes. I loved you riding that fat, ridiculous pony, trying so hard to do everything right just to please me. I loved you faking a sprained ankle to save my pride . . . and I want to love you for the rest of our lives, if you’ll have me. Miranda, will you be my wife?”

She launched across the driver’s seat, flinging herself into his arms, weeping as she sobbed out, “Yes, yes!” Clinging around his neck, she covered his face in her eager kisses and joyful tears, until he captured her lips with his own.

He could feel her trembling in his arms as she yielded, taking his tongue into her sweet mouth. Her fingertips skimmed his cheek, and she pulled back, desire welling in her eyes.

“Damien, make love to me.”

A shock of need coursed through him in response. “Let’s go inside.”

She nodded.

He closed his eyes and cupped the back of her head, kissing her once more in slow, rich promise before releasing her and jumping down lightly from the sleigh. He helped her down after him and pulled one of the lanterns out of its secure holder, handing it to her.

He quickly led the leader of his four-horse team into the barn, pulling the sleigh behind. He unharnessed them in the barn for the night, leaving them water and hay, then lifted out of the back the baskets of food and the satchels of extra clothes that both of them had brought. His uncomplaining future countess helped him carry the parcels across the open area, up the snowy front stairs, and into the deserted Bayley House.

Inside, the cavernous space was pitch-dark, freezing cold, and silent as a tomb. He took the lantern from her and led the way to the drawing room, where he had left his camp intact by the fireplace. All was just as he had left it on the day Lucien had come to tell him of Jason’s death. Even his trusty wood-chopping axe still leaned against the wall. They set all their supplies down. Damien dusted off his hands.

“You have a real eye for decor,” Miranda remarked, looking around at the cobwebs and swallows’ nests.

He grinned. “Come and hold the light while I get wood to make our fire.”

She obeyed, following him back outside. “Do your tenants pay their rents in cordwood?” she asked as he pulled back the oilskin from atop his giant woodpile and took a few logs.

“I chopped it myself.”

“Ah, naturally,” she answered wryly, looking mystified.

He chuckled, and soon they had a roaring bonfire in the drawing room hearth. It cast a ruddy circle of cheerful light and warmth over his little camp. He moved aside some loose floorboards, uncovering the well-concealed hidey-hole where he kept a store of expensive brandy for when the occasion called, along with some other provisions. Miranda peered curiously into it, then took out his mess kit and poured a draught into his unbreakable tumbler for them to share. Kneeling before the fire, Damien prodded the logs into place with a few final shoves of the fire poker. She came over to stand beside him, offering him the brandy. He took a sip, then looked up as she raked her fingers lovingly through his hair, her touch a summons. He kissed her wrist, desire flaming in his blood, then looked up and passed an assessing glance over her beloved face.

“Are you sure, my darling?” he murmured. “I can wait for our wedding night if you . . .” His voice trailed off hoarsely as she withdrew and drifted languidly to his bedroll, taking off the pale gold ball gown that she was still wearing from Lady Holland’s party.

He could wait, he claimed? Who was he fooling? He stared at her, dry-mouthed with reverent awe. Firelight and shadows sculpted her delicate features, but the seriousness of her expression, the intelligence and intensity in her stare, the trust and loyalty in her eyes all bespoke her love for him. He knew that she would never let him down. In a short period of time, this headstrong young woman had become home to him. She understood him with a depth that needed no words and had become more of a companion to him than he had ever expected from a wife. She let down her long, rich, dark-chocolate brown hair and undressed for him by the firelight, all softness and abundant curves, a luminous white goddess with lush, pink nipples and enchantment in her emerald eyes. Letting him have his fill of gazing at her, she lowered herself slowly to the blankets and slid her long legs down into the bedroll, waiting for him between the blankets. He stared at her—mute, transfixed, and still. She held out her hand to him, waiting.

His movements were slow and dreamlike as he stood and went to her.

She tilted her head back, gazing up at him in perfect trust. “Will you always love me, Damien?” she murmured in a sensuous tone.

“Aye,” he promised. “Always.”

“You will never turn to another?”

“I am yours . . . completely.” Taking her hand, he knelt down beside her and gathered her to him, kissing her mouth with savoring depth as her artful fingers plucked at the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, undressing him. Then her hands were on his skin, running along his arms and shoulders, caressing his sides. Still kissing her, letting her long, thick mane spill through his fingers, he moved into the bedroll with her.

He took the rose that he had given her earlier and trailed it lightly over her skin until she quivered with desire for him. He bent his head, sucking her breast, then stroked her womanhood and found her ready. Her palm grazed his solid flesh, and he moaned softly. Her touch grew more insistent, her kisses ever more hungry. Her skin burned with the heat of her passion as he lay down atop her, feeling her wrap her legs around his hips. He was breathless, his heart slamming in his chest.

“My beloved,” he whispered, throbbing with transcendent joy as he found his way to her silken threshold. He had never deflowered a virgin before and took pains to be gentle.

Her arms were around him, her head tipped back, her neck arched. Her black velvet lashes half veiled her eyes, which were glazed with longing as he kissed her throat. Her breasts heaved against his bare chest, and he held her more tenderly than he had ever touched a woman in his life. He ran his fingertips down her cheek and followed them with kisses.

“Oh, Damien,” she groaned. “Oh, my love, make me yours . . .
forever
.”

He closed his eyes in soul-deep obedience and took her, capturing her sharp gasp of pain on his lips.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Shh.” With his thumbs, he wiped away the pair of tears that trickled from the corners of her eyes. He petted her, murmuring love words he had never before dared to utter as he waited for her fertile body to accept him.

“Oo, that hurt,” she confessed after a moment, flicking her eyes open to meet his gaze anxiously. She looked very young and, indeed, she was.

He kissed her nose and gave her a sensual smile of reassurance. “Yes, my beauty, but now I’ll make it all better.”

Her eyes flickered with renewed desire as he ran his hand down her side and touched her between their bodies. Her moan was little more than a murmur of pleasure, but her sinuous movements were an unmistakable invitation. He rose up on his hands above her and rode her endlessly with slow, tender care; she arched beneath him in trembling desire, caressing the flexing muscles of his chest and abdomen, staring hotly into his eyes.