The Fairy Tale Bride (11 page)

Simon accepted the bag with a small bow,
although he kept his forearm tight across her throat. He dared not
lower his guard where Miranda was concerned. She was likely to
contrive to bring her lesson to a premature end by getting rescued
by some courageous swain.

He rummaged in the bag, but there was nothing
of value save a few coins, not even a single strand of pearls. He
realized she would expect him to find those few coins interesting,
but he knew there had to be more. "Is this it, just a few
shillings? Is that the best ye can do when ye have business in this
street?"

Miranda shook her head. "I am not a wealthy
woman. I am a simple fishmonger's wife."

"A fishmonger's wife, eh?" He eyed her
speculatively. "I've known a fishmonger or two in my time to make
good money. Perhaps you have some silver hidden away?"

Her face went white, and he knew. He knew.
But where on earth did she have it concealed? She carried no more
bags with her.

Unless ... of course, it had to be hidden in
the bulk of her costume. But where?

A memory came to him unbidden, of Miranda
with her gown clinging damply to her. Even in the candle glow of
the cottage he had seen enough of her to know her true shape.
Perhaps she had hidden her treasure in the bosom of her gown — much
fuller than the Miranda he remembered. Or under the bulky
skirts?"

He hesitated, reluctant to physically search
her. Such an assault was more than the lesson he intended. But for
a reckless fool like Miranda, the more severe lesson might be
sorely needed. She had taken an awful chance to come to London on
her own. He could be a real cutthroat. And a real cutthroat would
have no mercy upon an unprotected woman.

"Have ye nothing under your skirts, girlie? I
know some women what hide things under there. Ye've enough room for
a set of silver, I'd wager."

Again, Miranda blanched. "You are mistaken.
Take what I have given you and go. The coins are all I have,
including my fare home. You are stranding me in London. Isn't that
enough for you?"

"Nay girlie," he answered. "Give up what's
under yer skirts – and maybe whatever you have tucked into your
bosom, if you please." He tried for a leer and found it
surprisingly easy as he visualized what lay under her bulky
gown.

She clutched her hand to her bosom. "No." He
sighed loudly, making sure to aim his garlic-laden breath directly
into her face, but she gave no quarter, saying only, "I am as poor
as Cinder Ella before she married her Prince Charming, I assure
you."

She was not going to make this easy. And
Simon did not want to prolong the lesson overmuch. Any moment some
gallant swain might rescue her. "I've no time for foolery," he
muttered, lifting her skirt just enough to let her know he was
serious.

She snatched the fabric from his fingers.
"Just a moment." Her voice trembled as she turned away from him
with a dignity and modesty that surprised him. Truthfully, he could
not understand why she was not down on her knees, in tears, begging
for her life.

He was a sight with the busy, unkempt beard
he had borrowed, and the clothes that stank from unwashed years on
the beggar from whom he had bought them.

Impatiently, as she fumbled with the ties, he
moved to help her. The back of his neck had begun to prickle with
the second sense that had kept him alive through many a
skirmish.

She started at his touch and a bag fell at
his feet with a clink. Silver, definitely. She picked it up with a
nervous laugh and handed it to him. He opened it to see the silver
candlesticks she had no doubt hoped would afford her family some
ready.

He hefted the bag, make sure to clink the
silver loudly. "Thankee girlie." As he turned to leave, the look of
overwhelming relief that spread over her face stopped him. Was she
holding something back? "Is there any more girlie? Perhaps
something to balance out the heft of these?" He clinked the bag
again, pleased by her wince of disappointment.

Again, her face betrayed her.

He did not want to wait while she fumbled yet
again with nervous fingers to untie the second bag. Drawing her
tight against him, he untied the bag hanging against her slender
hip. Her heart was beating rapidly. This was a lesson he hoped she
would never forget – although he would see she was never in such
want again. He found himself fiercely glad of that fact. He took
the second bag without examining the contents.

Remembering that he held all her coins, he
selected a few from the reticule. "This is good booty. I can be
generous with ye, and leave ye fare to get home again. Such as ye
should not be visitin' London, I'm thinking. Send yer husband next
time."

The tears welled up in her eyes and he flung
a few more. "Here's enough for a room for the night and a cup of
tea while yer waiting for yer coach."

He turned to leave then stopped once more. He
couldn't have her enlisting the aid of any sympathetic young
gentleman as soon as he left her here. "Don't be calling for help
girlie, don't think there's won't be questions about where a
fishmonger's wife got her hands on a pair of silver
candlesticks."

As he left the alley, he was accosted by a
sharp-eyed older man who wore clothes almost as disreputable as
Simon's. "Hold, guv. Those bags look heavy. Show me what ye
got."

Simon held the bag up, as if to show his
booty, and then, using one of the candlesticks as a club, he struck
the man a blow to the side of the head. The man released him and
Simon turned to find Miranda staring straight at him, as if she
might challenge him. He frowned ferociously at her and was
satisfied to see her turn and walk away at a fast clip, staying far
away from entranceways and alleys.

The man at his side made a feeble grasp for
his coat, but Simon struck his hand away easily. Free, he ran.

"Simon? It is you. I was convinced Frederic
was mistaken. But it is you."

"Yes, Mother. It is I." He ignored the plea
in her eyes. She might have fooled London with her fragile blonde
beauty and her gentle voice, but he knew the true woman behind her
soft manners.

Seeing that he intended no gesture of peace,
she settled into a chair by the fire. He ignored her wave for him
to sit. "Have you come then, to tell me …" Her voice faded for a
moment, then regained its strength. "…to say goodbye?"

"I am to be married."

She gave a shocked exclamation. "Married?
Have you gone mad?"

Stiffly, Simon answered, "The matter is
settled. I see no point in discussing it."

"Then why did you come?" she asked
bitterly.

"I did not want to cause you any undue
embarrassment, should you appear ignorant of the engagement of your
only son. I would do nothing to break the promise I made the old
duke, as you know." He would have turned and left, but she laid a
hand on his arm.

Sudden hope kindled in her eyes. "Simon, does
this mean that you have decided not to go through with your foolish
plan?"

"No, Mother." He should have guessed that
would be her first question. Ever her thoughts revolved around her
position and her image in society.

"Then why?"

"It is a long and uninteresting story,
Mother. One I do not wish to share with you. Suffice it to say that
my bride is a resourceful, impetuous woman, whose parents did a
lamentable job with the extraordinary daughter they were given. I
have decided to amuse myself in my last months with turning her
into a woman suitable to live in the world in which she was born."
He added, as a muttered afterthought, "Without turning it upside
down and inside out."

His mother flushed. "You cannot marry when
you have no intention of remaining a duke. Do you plan to walk away
from your wife in six months' time? You'd do better to leave her
jilted at the altar."

"Perhaps that is true, Mother, but I am not
about to do so."

"I see." The cold woman he was more
comfortable dealing with came again to the fore. "You are just like
your father. What you want, you take, no matter the
consequences."

"Are you referring to him?" Simon nodded
toward the portrait of the former duke that hung above the mantel.
"Or were you speaking of my true father?"

Her cheeks grew pink. "How dare you be so
insolent. The duke acknowledged you, Simon. He was your father in
the eyes of the law."

"And in the eyes of God?"

With cold precision, she said, "Truly, you
are as unfeeling as both of your fathers. You care nothing for this
girl or her welfare. You wish only to satisfy your own whims."

His mother was more furious than Simon had
ever seen her, except perhaps at his father's deathbed. The words
she had spoken were still burned into his memory.
I find I
cannot pray that the devil takes you, Sinclair. Though I wish I had
never clapped eyes on you, though I wish my father had not sold me
to you before I even had a chance at the marriage mart. I would not
have Simon if it were not for you.

Simon had not understood, as he stood
listening unseen from the doorway, until his mother had answered
his father's inaudible whisper.
Yes, he is a fine boy. My
bastard son will make a successful seventh duke.

Bringing himself back to the present, he said
curtly, "You give me no credit, Mother. It is not merely my whim
which compels the marriage." He wondered very much the truth of
that – he had evaded marriage traps before with great skill. This
one, it seemed, he was springing on the bride. Was it only a
whim?

Her eyes narrowed. "You have gotten her with
child?"

"No, Mother. Though you are hardly one to
comment, are you?"

"Simon. I am your mother."

"Of course. Please excuse my intemperate
speech, Madam." He felt a twist of pleasure and pain at the color
that washed her cheeks yet again. He sighed. "Miss Fenster and I
have been discovered in a compromising position by a person who
would delight in trying to embarrass me, for which I care little.
But I promised the old duke I would not harm the family name, and I
will not allow even a trace of mockery to be attached to it as long
as I am duke. After all, I know what my proud lineage is, do I
not?"

Her mouth twisted as she let out a cry. He
had never seen her lose control like this – except on the day of
the old duke's death. She gazed at him steadily and said in a cold,
hard voice, "You might not be his son, but you are more like
Sinclair than you know."

She closed her eyes and whispered, "How I
wish it weren't so." And then, her anger returned, she added, "And
so will this girl you intend to marry – unless you give up your
plan to run away form your title and the duty you were bred to
perform."

"I believe we have covered that completely in
the past, mother."

The duke knew, Simon. He …" Her voice trailed
off, the emotion that had burst from her words going flat in a way
he knew well from the days when he had thought himself his father's
son, the legitimate heir, and had listened to her rare arguments
with his father. No one ever won an argument with his father. After
a while, most learned not to try. "He wanted you to inherit. If he
had not, he would have disowned you without a moment's
hesitation."

"Good day, Mother."

"Think of that innocent young girl, Simon.
Does she deserve what you want to put her through? Just so that you
can amuse yourself for a few months' time? You will ruin her." When
he would have answered, she allowed her voice to rise. "I don't
mean her reputation. I mean her heart and soul."

He thrust that thought away from him. He
wanted Miranda as he had wanted no other woman in his life and Fate
had dropped her into his arms. No matter that it was foolhardy to
marry for the few months he had left, he would do so. He would be a
good husband to her, no matter how brief their time together. And
for the rest of his life, he would know that he had had at least a
tiny part of the life he had dreamed of once long ago.

He was not without self-control and he knew
several methods that would assure he left no child behind. He was
not, in truth, being unreasonable. He could not risk marrying in
his new life. Years of deception would wear him down to nothing.
But six months was a heartbeat in a lifetime. If he could have her
for six months, then so be it. Still, he could not help his urge to
justify himself. "She will be ruined if do not marry her, Mother.
And she will only be a widow — heart, soul, and jointure in her
possession if I do."

His mother winced. "Simon, reconsider this
foolhardy action of yours. If you are determined to keep the
integrity of the Watterlys unscathed by scandal and pass the line
to a true descendent, you do not want to bring a wife into this
mess."

Simon refused to listen. She was not one from
whom he would take counsel. "I must go mother." He bent to press a
light kiss against her cheek, avoiding her clutching hand.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Miranda slipped soundlessly into the darkened
main hallway of Anderlin. She stopped for a moment to shoot the
bolt, leaning against the sturdy oak door. Safe.

Gradually, the trembling within her abated as
she drew strength from the peaceful familiarity of Anderlin at
night. No servants or younger sisters stirred to ask embarrassing
questions, or silently note her discomposure.

The incident yesterday had affected her more
than she supposed. As she walked the familiar pathway from the
village to Anderlin she had seen highwaymen in every sway of a tree
branch in the breeze.

She straightened and headed for the library
to check on Valentine. What was she going to do now? Simon seemed
intent upon marrying her, Valentine upon marrying her off. And now,
at the whim of a scoundrel, she had lost her chance to put the
family finances back in order for a while longer.