Miranda (17 page)

His fingers found a pair of metal hairpins that held her curls loosely on top of her head. He drew them out and dropped them to the floor, his eyes never leaving hers. The curls tumbled down past her shoulders, giving her beauty the pagan lushness of an ancient goddess. She was Isis, Aphrodite. Or maybe Persephone, about to lead him to a place he dared not go. He paused to furrow his hand into her hair, feeling its satiny texture as he leaned forward to kiss her.

He untied the front of her robe and parted it. An involuntary gasp hissed from between his lips.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“I assumed you had on a gown beneath this robe.”

“Surprise,” she said softly.

“Aye. You
are
a surprise.” He kissed and tasted her throat, her smooth skin. She kept her hands resting lightly on his shoulders and her eyes half closed, yet he sensed a wildness in her, a hunger, an eagerness.

Had she been anyone but Miranda, he would have stripped down and made short work of his own satisfaction. But this was Miranda. This was the wedding night they should have had in Scotland. He refused to look too closely at his reasons for wanting her pleasure even more than his own.

He cupped her breasts in his hands, marveling at the silken smoothness of her skin. Bending forward with exquisite restraint and care, he kissed one breast, then the other, his tongue fondling her until he felt her fingers dig into his shoulder, just above his healing wound.
Ah, harder, love
, he urged her silently.
Let out the wildness.

His hand drifted down, parting her thighs and the dark nest of curls, and then her woman's flesh. He kissed her mouth and pulled back, watching while his hand caressed her, round and round. She wore a look of startlement, of anticipation, her lips moist and swollen from his kisses.

This was Lucas's whore, Ian told himself, trying to fix the idea in his mind. Yet even as he thought it, tried to use it to maintain his detachment, he knew he was wrong. He cupped her in his hand, his fingers finding a spot that made her catch her breath.

“Ian!”

“Aye, love, what is it?”

“I'm afraid...”

He stopped immediately. The last thing he wanted was to scare her. “Afraid,” he repeated.

“If I used to know how to do this before, it's one of the things I've forgotten.”

He couldn't help smiling. God help him, he could not. She wasn't Lucas's whore; she never had been. Innocence shone like a beacon from her velvety brown eyes.

“Do you want to go back to your room?” he asked.

“You're jesting, aren't you?”

His desire was growing painful by now. “Actually, I'm not. I won't make you do anything you don't want to do, Miranda.”

“But you said once you started, you wouldn't be able to stop.”

“That's my strutting male bravado talking.” He kissed her lightly on the brow, though every movement was painful, every breath he took filled with the essence of her. “The truth is, I wouldna hurt you, Miranda. Nor even cause you discomfort.”

“Well, you haven't done either.”

Yet, he thought grimly.

“So go on,” she said.

“Go on,” he repeated, a slow burn rekindling in his loins.

“With what you were just doing.”

His hand caressed her breasts, then slid downward. “With that?”

“Yes.”

“And...that?”

She gasped. “Oh, yes.”

He bit lightly at her earlobe and tried something else. “And what about that, love?”

“Yes, that, too.”

He felt her wonderment as if it were his own. He took off his shirt and let her small, deft hands drift over him.

“You have a lot of scars,” she whispered.

He skimmed one hand down her bare torso and cupped her hip. “You have none.”

“You were in the wars.”

He did not ask how she knew. He did not want to find out, not now. “Aye.”

“Did you ever tell me about it?”

“Nay.”

“Will you one day?”

“Perhaps. But not now.” He had to stifle a groan in his throat. “Right now, we're busy.”

“We are, aren't we?” She leaned forward, placed a soft, shy kiss on his throat and let her mouth trail down his chest.

Lucas, you fool, Ian thought. How in God's name could you fail to hold her?

Then he banished all thoughts of his rival. It was as if the world had shrunk to the tiny area illuminated by the candle on the mantelpiece. Everything began with the woman in his arms and ended at the edge of light. There was nothing but the two of them, and he was filled with the need to bring her pleasure.

She was not bashful, but inquisitive and increasingly passionate. He had, Ian realized with a start, won her trust, at least in this arena. She wanted him and saw no point in being coy about it. When he took off the rest of his clothes and lowered himself to the chaise, hovering above her, she subjected him to a brief, frank assessment, then looked up into his face.

“Oh, my” was all she said.

Simple words, but delivered in that tone of voice, it was the most lavish compliment a man could receive.

“Aye, yours.” He brought his arm around behind her and lifted her against him. She came willingly, arching with supple grace, her hand finding him and setting fire to the last reserves of his control.

“Put your legs around me, love,” he whispered in her ear. “Aye, like that. Are you comfortable?” He almost trembled with the effort of holding himself back.

“Actually, yes,” she said with a smile in her voice. She rocked her hips a little. “Yes.”

He kissed her and parted her with his hand, his tongue in her mouth echoing the movements of his fingers until he could wait no longer. With excruciating slowness, he sank into her, making himself wait, terrified by the idea of hurting a woman who was supposed to mean nothing to him.

It was she who grew impatient. Her legs tightened and she tilted up, her hands pressing him closer, closer, and then a long sigh hissed from her when they were fully joined at last.

He was not surprised to find that she was a virgin. He had failed to fool himself into believing she was Lucas's harlot; that had simply been a way to keep himself from falling in love with her. Now what excuse would he use?

“Ah, Ian,” she said in a quavering voice. “That is—” She broke off.

“What?” he prompted, thinking she would tell him it hurt, that she wanted to stop. He had suffered tortures in his life, but none so punishing as that.

“That is exactly what my body craves every time I look at you.”

Her stark honesty torched his blood even as it broke his heart. He was stealing her virtue from her, stealing her past, making it into something it wasn't.

“I want you to like this, Miranda,” he whispered, starting to move. “I want to bring you joy.”

“Ian?”

“Aye?” He could barely speak now; their bodies were joined, and the very idea of being one with her consumed him utterly.

“It's working.”

“What's working?”

“The joy.”

He fused his mouth down upon hers then, silencing her so that her body could know the truth of what he felt for her, so his mouth would not have to utter any more lies. Like this, making love to her, making both of their bodies sing like violins—that was his truth. It was the only way he could be honest with her—here, in the bedchamber, speaking not in words but with his heart.

Sensation crescendoed, building inside him, filling his chest until he couldn't breathe. Beneath him, Miranda was flushed, her skin damp and silky, her hungry lips clinging to his as her legs tightened.

All at once she pulled her mouth back from his. Her eyes flew open, and she gasped out his name again and again. Her soft pulsations drew from Ian the most exquisite climax he had ever experienced. A soaring exultation engulfed him, and then he shuddered downward, wanting to cover her like a blanket.

She was still saying his name, but her gasps had subsided to a purr of contentment. Her mouth curved in a smile that was both sweet and knowing.

He settled beside her, stretching out full length on the narrow chaise and propping himself on one elbow so he could look at her. The warm summer breeze wafted in through an open window, bringing with it the flower scents from the garden.

“It's late,” he said at last.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps we should go to bed.”

“Do you want me to go back to my room?”

He wanted to scream
No!
, to forbid her to leave his side, but he forced himself to say calmly, “The handfast marriage is legal. You've done nothing wrong, Miranda.”

“It could be awkward if we suddenly started behaving like husband and wife,” she said.

“So for now...”

“For now perhaps it is best we leave things as they are.” She laughed softly. “Which is awkward enough, but there you are.”

“You're off to your bed, then.” He was curiously disappointed. It was a deliciously appealing idea, spending the night sleeping, curled around her.

“Am I?” she asked.

“You should be.”

She stretched with a slow, indulgent moan, rubbing against him sensuously. “Oh, very well. I know when I'm not wanted.”

“Minx. You're going to make me say it, aren't you?”

“Say what?” She regarded him with round-eyed innocence.

“That I want you here with me all night.”
Every night
, said a voice in his head.
Until the end of time.

“And do you?”

With a fierce laugh he turned so that he was above her once more, and he entered her with no preparation other than the love they had just made. Her eyes flew open wider than ever, then drifted half shut.

“I do, Miranda,” he growled. “I do want you here.”

He made love to her all over again. And again. At some point he realized he should send her away to her bed, but selfishly he stole the night from her, holding her there, watching her wonder and passion grow with each passing moment.

The most dangerous thing about her, Ian knew, was her innocence. It was her innocence that posed the greatest threat to a jaded heart like his.

Fourteen

Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.

—Lady Caroline Lamb

H
ow did one pretend that one's life had not changed, when in fact a blossoming had occurred deep in her soul? Miranda wondered as she made her way to breakfast the next day. How would she act in front of Frances and Lucas?
Could
she ever again behave like a virgin?

She paused on the marble staircase, her hand resting lightly on the rail, and drew a deep breath. It was going to be awkward, just as she and Ian had predicted the night before. But the night before, they had laughed away their hesitation with the determined eagerness of two people engulfed by passion.

Engulfed. That was what he had done to her. He had not simply made her his. Had not simply made love to her, mated with her. He had engulfed her. Taken her entire being into himself, and she had emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis.

It was the most wonderful, most frightening thing that had ever happened to her.

At least she
thought
so. Perhaps other delights lurked in her memory. Other kinds of pleasures. But if that were true, why did she still fear to recall the past?

She stood for a few more moments, wondering what remembrances hid inside her, waiting to leap out like ghosts. Why didn't she want to recall each separate precious moment she and Ian had spent together?

She shivered despite the warmth of the day. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel him engulfing her. Could still smell his scent, taste him, know the silky texture of his tanned flesh over firm muscle, hear the sound of his low laughter in her ear.

Her body responded as if he had caressed her; she caught her breath and felt a little flood of warmth that made her knees go weak. “Unbelievable,” she whispered, infuriated by her lack of control over her thoughts or emotions. Determinedly she let go of the banister and walked down the stairs.

The moment she stepped into the dining room, her fears became real. Lucas looked up at her with the wounded bewilderment of an injured stag, while Frances regarded her with canny feminine understanding.

Miranda couldn't decide whether to bluff her way out of the situation or to concede defeat.

She blew out a sigh. “Lying takes too much energy,” she said, seating herself and pouring coffee. She added a generous helping of cream to the cup and took a sip. “Was it Yvette who told you?”

She thought of the maid, pretty Yvette, who was so solicitous yet so oddly watchful.

Lucas steepled his fingers together over his untouched plate of eggs and rashers. “Thank you for not lying to me,” he said. “Thank you, at least, for that.”

The tone of his voice was like an arrow to her heart. She had hurt him. He had been nothing but kind and protective, patient and understanding. He maintained that he loved her. And she had hurt him.

“Lucas—”

“Oh, for heaven's sake.” Frances dropped her napkin on the table. “She's married to MacVane, after all.”

Lucas swallowed hard. His hand, icy cold, found Miranda's. “What disturbs me the most is that there is
nothing
in your eyes when you look at me. Not even the faintest echo of what I saw when you were...yourself. When you were mine. It's as if he's completely taken you over. Not just your heart and your mind, but your very soul.”

Miranda shivered again.
Engulfed her.
She turned away and served herself rashers and eggs from the sideboard. “All I know is that I wed him willingly. If I discover I was wrong...” She could not finish.

“When you do, I pity you,” he said softly. “For then it may be too late for us.” He turned his gaze out the window. “It might already be too late.”

“Come now, let's not get maudlin, at least not until I've had my coffee,” Frances said. Yet there was a telltale brightness in her eyes.

Miranda had no appetite, but she picked up a spoon and reached for the crystal bowl of jam. Her hand shook, and her head began to throb. The cut crystal seemed to slice into her hand, and she flung the bowl away, shattering it on the floor.

An explosion detonated in her head. Thoughts formed like the breaking of the crystal, but in reverse, the pieces coming back together, reshaping themselves into something familiar.

She was hit by wave after wave of images, memories of the past, all jumbled up, making no sense yet making perfect sense.

Try the plum preserves, sweetheart
, said her father's kindly, distracted voice.
It was always your mother's favorite.

Miranda's breath came quickly, urgently. She felt a hand on her shoulder, heard Frances snap out an order to a servant, heard the clink of glass as someone poured water and held the cup to her lips.

She drank and opened her eyes. Frances peered at her inquisitively. “Well?”

“My father. I remember...”

Lucas snatched up her hand again. “And me? Is it clear now, my darling? Do you remember me?”

His certainty that she should recall him after being with Ian all night disturbed her. She shook her head. “This is about my father. I know where he might have gone.”

“Where?” Frances asked, an edge of urgency in her voice.

“I can see it, can picture it,” Miranda said, “but I can't recall where it is.” She removed her hand from Lucas's grip again and rubbed her temples. “An old building, some sort of tower. Ancient stone, crumbling mortar. A well sweep in the yard. Larkspur blooming at the gate. Rolling hills behind, grazing sheep, very few trees.”

“You just described half of England,” Frances said.

“Somewhere at the seaside?” Lucas asked.

“No, but there's a pond or lake or something—”

He jumped up. “I've got to go out.”

Miranda stood, too, swaying. “Wait. If you know something about this—”

“I may. And I may not. But if I do, it'll prove once and for all that I am the man you knew before you lost your memory. Not Ian MacVane.”

He dashed out as Ian walked in, his hair damp from his morning ablutions. He smelled of soap and clean laundry, and he was whistling a tune.

“Ladies,” he said, bowing from the waist. “Where was Lord Unlucky going in such a hurry?”

“Oh, spare us, MacVane,” Frances said.

He winked at Miranda. An intimate knowledge sparkled in that wink. “Cheerful, isn't she?”

“Spare us,” Miranda echoed. By light of day, the deep intimacies they had shared made her cheeks flame. She had cried out his name in ecstasy, had begged him to touch her in places for which she had no name, had boldly explored his body with her hands and mouth. Worst of all, she wanted it again.

He went to the sideboard and loaded a plate with food. “I consider myself a learned man,” he said over his shoulder. “There was a time in my life when I was confined for months on shipboard, and there was naught to do but read books.” He seated himself, smiled his thanks to the maid who poured his coffee. “But not a single one of the books I read during that time or ever since managed to answer the most baffling question that has ever occurred to man.” He paused and sipped his coffee. “What do women want?”

Miranda glared at him. “We are not amused.”

“She remembered,” said Frances.

Ian froze, his fork poised above his plate. Miranda thought she saw the color drain from his face, but she couldn't be certain, for the morning light was so bright that it formed a halo around his devilishly dark hair. Then he attacked his breakfast with great gusto.

“Indeed,” he said. His charm was as smooth as new satin gliding over marble. “And can you tell us, darling, what it is you remember?”

She stared at him for a moment. What was he saying, between the charming smiles and the heated glances? That he expected her to recall that she was wildly and passionately in love with him? Or that before the explosion, she had never seen him in her life? If only she could be sure...

Then she pictured a kindly, distracted man with a face that was too handsome for his own good, and her stomach churned with urgency. She felt guilty thinking of her own romantic problems when her father might be in danger, when he needed help.

“It's about my father,” she said in a rush. She closed her eyes and fought back tears. “I can picture him, every detail of his appearance. I can hear his voice. I can feel—” She broke off, bit her lip.

“Feel what?” Ian prodded.

She opened her eyes, forced herself to go on. “Feel...his love for me.” Then the tears spilled out, and she made no move to check them. “Oh, God. I was so afraid that there was no one in the past, that no one loved me. But my father did. As imperfect as my recollection is, I know that much, at least.”

“Is there anything more?” Ian asked. He exchanged a look with Frances.

Tears blurred Miranda's vision. She buried her face in her hands.

“Miranda.” His voice, with its gentle burr, soothed her. His hands covered hers, and he brought their joined hands down, uncovering her face. “What more do you remember?”

“It wasn't about you.” She was surprised to feel faint relief at the thought. Her grief faded to concern and a deep frustration. “But about a place that I know. A stone tower and a desolate moor.”

At Ian's coaxing, she explained about the old building, the garden and the well sweep. Frances called for paper and ink, and Miranda tried to sketch the images from her head.

Ian held out the drawing, turning it this way and that. “Thomas Lawrence has nothing to fear from you,” he said with a gentle wink in her direction. “This looks to me like a peel tower. That would mean it's situated in the Borders of Scotland.”

“Perhaps. No,” she said, not pausing to question where her conviction came from. “It's like a peel tower, but it lacks the ground fortifications. And the hills are more like those of the Cotswolds, or the West Country. Gentler, perhaps.”

He studied the picture. “What's this at the edge?”

She shrugged. “A signpost or a milestone.”

Frances leaned her elbows on the table. “A signpost would tell us exactly what we wanted to know. Look, Miranda. Here's the beginnings of the letter
H
, and then you reached the edge of the paper.”

Miranda looked and looked. She touched the nib of her pen to the letter. Think think think.
Where are you, Papa?

“
H.
What begins with
H?
Hatfield,” she said. “Hackforth, Hallifax, Hagworthingham.”

“Hever, Humblestone,” Frances guessed.

“Honeybourne,” Ian added. “Horncastle, Hildersley. This is getting us nowhere.”

Frustrated, Miranda twirled the tip of her quill in the ink and sketched idly while she sank deep into thought.
H. High.
Unwittingly she had finished the word, her writing drifting off the page and onto the snowy tablecloth. She stared at it, knowing she should apologize for ruining the linen but struck mute by the thoughts suddenly swirling in her head.

High. High Wybourne.

Miranda, he's a danger to you. He'll try to convince you otherwise, but you must not trust him. Must never, ever trust him.
Her father's voice whispered in her mind.

She dropped the quill as if it had burned her and shot up from the table. In seconds Ian was at her side. “You've gone pale as whey. What is it?”

She nearly let the entire story tumble out, but then she stopped herself.

Perhaps her father had been warning her about Ian. The thought made her feel ill. Last night he had stolen her very soul, and he had not even had to win her trust in order to do it.

She kept thinking of Lucas's face when she had come down to breakfast. His bleak disappointment. His utter certainty that when she remembered, she would remember
him
.

“I feel quite unwell, all of a sudden,” she said. “I think I'd like to go to my room and lie down.”

“Of course, love.” He escorted her to the stairs. “I'm not surprised you're worn out.”

“I can manage on my own,” she said.

He cradled her cheek in his hand, and she felt again the tenderness he seemed to reserve solely for her. And she remembered, vividly, everything he had done to her last night. Had done with her. All the emotion, all the ecstasy and passion he had coaxed from her. Had it been a lie, then? Was it possible to find such perfect joy in the arms of a man who could deceive her without blinking?

“Miranda,” he said, “are you having regrets, lass?”

“Are you?”

“Nay.”

She leaned her cheek into his palm, wishing his warmth were something she could believe in. “Ah, Ian. I won't lie to you, either. I don't know.”

“Either?”

She forced herself to hold his gaze. “I didn't lie to Lucas.”

“You
told
him?” Ian took his hand away and raked it through his hair. “Jesus—”