The Fairy Tale Bride (16 page)

"I bid you a pleasant evening, Cousin. I must
make sure the horses have been taken care of after our long
journey." He turned on his heel and left Arthur speechless and his
mother smiling with smug triumph as he sought the solace of the
stables.

His poor excuse rang in his own ears and he
could imagine what Arthur was thinking — he had never questioned
the day to day running of the stables before. Why start on his
wedding night?

CHAPTER TEN

Miranda stood by the window in the vast bed
chamber that was now her own. Fairytales rarely went beyond this
point. The weight of her responsibilities as a duchess were
emphasized in the very gleam of the polished hardwood of the solid,
centuries-old furniture and in the tapestries that hung on the wall
tapestries created by Simon's ancestors.

She ran her hand absently over the smoothly
carved bedrail, able to feel the grain of the wood with her
fingertips. How old was this bed? Had the first, newly-made earl
had it commissioned to celebrate his success? Or was it the first
earl to be made duke? Her wedding night was taking on more
import.

If she could not find a cure for Simon's
illness, they had little time to make sure there would be at least
a chance for a male heir to inherit. Instead of a bridge between
two people, they held the responsibility to create a bridge from
the present to the future. She knew how Simon valued his lineage.
What if she failed him?

She smiled as she traced a golden thread
through its path in one of the tapestries. The historic
significance of what would pass between Simon and herself was not
nearly enough to sober her. An impatient joy bubbled in her. Simon
would come to her tonight. She wondered why she did not feel more
sorrow, for if Simon was right, then he would be dead too soon and
her joy but fleeting.

Yet she had her plans — Katherine would
arrive soon. If her healing skills were as good as the villagers
attested, Miranda had hope that the village healer might succeed
where Simon's doctors had failed. She must.

She held her impatience at bay until she had
finished tracing the golden thread. What could Simon be saying to
his mother that would take him away for so long? Surely he was not
nervous, such vagaries of the nerves were for the female on her
wedding night, not the male.

She drifted toward the gilt-edged looking
glass. She had long since changed into her wedding nightgown, a
frill of lace and silk that made her blush, even after she had
covered it with a robe of silk.

Where was Simon? If he did not come to her
soon, she would be too nervous to ensure that things went smoothly
between them. As her mother had often lamented, Miranda was not by
nature a person able to wait quietly. She must do something. After
a moment more staring at the bed and its imposing grandeur, she
looked down at her attire.

Impulsively, she chose a gown from her trunk
and dressed quickly. She found her way to the front hall with only
a little difficulty. There was light from under the drawing room
door, but no sound of conversation or argument. Hesitantly, she
opened the door.

''I'm glad to see that you have recovered
from your earlier indisposition," Simon's mother said calmly. Her
steel gray eyes missed nothing as she examined Miranda from head to
toe. "I wanted to meet the woman who could convince my son to marry
her considering his ... condition."

Miranda was too distracted to do more than
blush lightly. "I am honored to meet you, Your Grace. I apologize
for my earlier indisposition. Our trip was long and exhausting, and
neither Simon nor I expected a guest."

A true smile, with a bitter twist, softened
the dowagers' features briefly. "I hardly think I qualify as a
guest in the home I came to as a bride — or in which I raised my
son." She looked directly at Miranda, as if issuing some
challenge.

Feeling as if she was being ensnared by a
careful spider, Miranda decided that directness would be the best
course. "Where is Simon?" Astonished, she felt half embarrassed and
half proud that she was able to sound as condescending as the
dowager.

"I should try the stables, my dear. I don't
believe he trusts himself in the house at the moment." She sounded
almost amused.

Miranda searched the impassive face for a
clue as to how to take such a comment coming from Simon's own
mother. Was this woman evil inside, as Snow White's stepmother had
been? Would Miranda be safer refusing apples from the dowager, lest
they be poisoned? Or was her poison one of the soul rather than the
body?

After a moment's silent clash of gazes, she
bit her lip and turned to look out into the hallway. What was wrong
with Simon's mother? Miranda, her sense of alarm aroused, had no
time to find out. "I shall try the stables, then."

"Steady, boy," Simon soothed as he brushed
his skittish stallion. He knew that the stallion's ebony coat
needed no more brushing; it shone in the dim lamplight from the
hour that Simon had already spent on it. Still, he could not face
the end of the task. What could come next to fill the hours between
now and dawn?

He moved the brush slowly over the horse's
coat.

He had trapped himself in an impossible
situation. He was a fool. Even the servants could see it.

Barcus, the head groom, had looked at him as
if he'd gone daft, coming into the stables when he had a new bride
in his bed. The man's mouth had dropped open when Simon ordered his
stallion saddled.

Though Barcus had been reticent about
refusing, Simon recognized the behavior. All his servants exhibited
it at inconvenient times — just when he was most out of sorts.
Barcus had acted as if he were unsure how His Grace would react
when told he could not ride his stallion into the dark as he
wished.

Would it make any difference to the man to
understand it was the tempting thought of his bride that had driven
Simon to make such an unreasonable request in the first place? But
Miranda was exactly what had kept Simon in the stables when
informed that his stallion had turned up with a stone in his shoe
and needed rest more than a fierce ride across a darkened
landscape.

Thus, his stallion was receiving a brushing
and currying the likes of which he'd never known, and all of the
stablemen thought Simon had completely lost his wits. Simon himself
wasn't absolutely sure that he hadn't. He had planned everything
very carefully, or so he'd thought.

The idea of never making love to his wife was
unbearable. He had married her in order to take her to bed, to
enjoy his last days as duke with a semblance of what he might have
had in other circumstances. But could he risk a child? His mother's
revelation had driven the risk home to him too well. With Miranda
so near and so willing, how could he limit himself, as he had
intended at first?

And what if, despite everything, she got
pregnant? That was unthinkable. He would not have his plans turn to
dust this close to realization. In six short months he meant to be
done with all his false ties to the dukedom. A child would not be a
complication. A child would be a disaster.

The only answer was to remain celibate. He
could do it; the consequences of not doing it were too disastrous
to dare. But what would Miranda say?

As the stable doors swung slowly open and the
glow of a lantern appeared, Simon groaned softly to himself. He had
forgotten for a moment that the woman he had married not only had a
passionate nature, but a curious and persistent one as well.

When she came to the door of the stable, he
was surprised to see that she had taken the time to don one of the
new walking dresses he had chosen for her, of a deep gold hue that,
just as he had expected, brought out the golden highlights in her
hair.

With a muttered oath, he sternly repressed
the image that he had enjoyed before, of himself slowly removing
that gown from her, her hair hanging loose.

"Simon?" Her voice was a whisper as she came
down the length of the stalls until she saw him. She smiled, but he
was not fooled by the gesture. She was very aware that things had
gone seriously awry between them and this intelligence shone in her
brandy-dark eyes.

"I thought you would be asleep by now," he
lied, applying the brush as vigorously and unnecessarily as he
could to his stallion's withers. "Our traveling was most
exhausting."

She looked at him in surprise, taking a
moment to respond. "On my wedding night?" Her voice was soft and
chiding, though he knew it must cost her to keep her fear and
uncertainty from him.

"What difference would it make what night?
The trip was long and ... wearying." He cursed himself the moment
he saw her eyes light with misunderstanding. "Oh, Simon, why are
you currying your horse if you are tired? Come to bed and I shall
rub your back."

"I referred to your exhaustion, Miranda, not
my own."

"But I am ... " Her voice trailed off.

She had meant to say that she was not the one
who was dying. His hatred focused on his mother and his black mood
darkened.

He did not meet her eyes as he searched for a
reason that would make her turn and leave him in peace. "I'll not
come into that house until my mother has seen fit to depart."

"Do not damage your health because you are
vexed with your mother, Simon." She moved toward him as he spoke,
and he carefully stepped away, keeping the horse between them.

Vexed? She thought him vexed? Leave it, a
cautious voice in his ear warned him. If he let even a scrap of his
true feelings for his mother surface, Miranda would not rest until
she knew every bit of the truth. And that he would not allow.

"I cannot sleep." That was certainly the
truth. He would be hard-pressed to stay in his own bed knowing that
Miranda was one door away and legally and willingly his.

She said nothing for a moment, but he could
feel her gaze burning on his back. He hoped she would turn and
leave. Her voice was gentle as she finally asked, "Are you afraid
of making love with me?"

"Afraid?" He strove to hide his incredulity
from her and his voice was a bark. How had she hit upon that so
quickly?

"Afraid for your health, I mean," she amended
hastily and he could see that she believed he was angry for the
affront to his manliness. "It seems to require some exertion … and
… I did notice your heart beating violently when … when … in the
carriage." She smiled. "I'm sorry for my missishness, but it is
difficult to find the appropriate words for our situation."

"Had you any fear for yourself, then?" When
she gave him a puzzled frown, he smiled. "Your own heartbeat was
rapid, as I recall." With vivid clarity, he thought ruefully. He
would not soon forget the eagerness of her response to his
touch.

She blushed. "I presume, then, such a
reaction is natural?"

He nodded, and continued unwisely, "It is
terribly natural although many proper ladies are said not to be
able to react so with their own husbands."

"So I do have improper feelings?" She looked
chastened. "And I am too much for you, my poor Simon? You require a
proper, calm lady for your wife and I am too wild?"

He suppressed the urge to laugh at her
suggestion. It offered him a surcease, for this evening at least.
Hesitantly, he nodded at the absurd idea that a night with her
would be too much for him. A thousand nights would be too little to
satisfy him. He wanted forever. But it did not matter what he
wanted. He could not have it.

"Come to bed. I will not trouble you. I will
stay in my room. There is a door between us. I will not disturb
your rest."

He was considering her offer when she
continued. "And when your health has recovered, I shall endeavor to
be calm during our encounters. After all, I will not have broken
stays next time."

He wondered how to convince her that there
would be no encounters. "I do not need more than your company,
Miranda."

"Of course you do. You must have an heir. Why
else would you have married when you believed yourself dying?"

He looked at her, shocked. She had said
nothing to him about children and heirs before the marriage.
Foolishly, he had assumed that meant she did not consider it a
possibility. Indeed, he had thought she would not have wished it,
as a child would put a halt to much of the coveted freedom that her
widowed status was to offer her. He didn't know whether to laugh or
to curse.

Misinterpreting his silence, Miranda stepped
closer to him and laid her hand on his chest. "I know I behave in
an unladylike way at times. But I promise I will do my best to
remain calm and not strain your health."

The scent of her came to him, despite the
stronger odor of the stables that surrounded them. It triggered his
anger. "Miranda, I do not require your coddling. And my cousin
Arthur is all the heir I need." Even as he said it, he vowed to see
Arthur wed before he left. To a strong young woman with broad
hips.

"Please come to bed. Don't hurt your health
because of this discord with your mother — or because you fear I
will endanger your health."

He turned his back on her. "I will retire
when I wish to."

"Promise me you will come to bed soon."

He ignored her.

"I will not leave until — "

He sighed. "I will retire when I wish. Now,
go to your room and leave me in peace. I won't last another hour,
never mind six months, with you nagging at me this way."

His harsh words worked as reason had not. He
did not turn around to watch her defeat, but he heard the swish of
her skirts and the rapid beat of her feet that indicated that she
nearly ran. For a moment, when she spoke of being "gentle" with
him, Simon had seen true anguish in her eyes. She didn't want to
hurt him. Which meant that he would have to hurt her. Often.