The Fairy Tale Bride (31 page)

His brother his father, his father his
grandfather.

His mother — could she have told him the
truth? Could the old duke and his son really have acted so
callously? Creating him as a spare against the possibility that
Peter might not return?

Miranda had never seen the dowager more
shaken than she was now. There were tears running down her cheeks,
although she made no sounds of sobbing as she watched her son's
retreat.

She asked calmly, "Why did you lie to
him?"

The dowager looked shocked. "I did not lie to
him."

"I heard you in the garden. I heard you with
the American. He is Simon's father, isn't he? Not Peter."

The sewing fell from her fingers to the
ground unnoticed. "I can hold on to none of my vile, hurtful
secrets, can I?" Her fury was intense when she raised her eyes.
"Peter. Mr. Watson. They are one and the same." Her anger faded.
"And yet not. Mr. Watson has taken America as his land and will not
give her up."

"Find Simon," she whispered. "Go to him. You
are his last hope. My last hope. I do not want to lose my son, but
I have no power to sway him, only to hurt him. Perhaps you will
believe me now that you have seen for yourself."

Nodding, Miranda wondered where he might have
gone.

As if she read her mind, the dowager said
softly, "He will ride. Perhaps he will fish at the pond. It is what
he did when he was troubled as a boy."

"He is a man now," Miranda reminded her.

"Yes. He is a man. And I fear that I have
been wrong in believing I knew him. I knew the boy, but perhaps I
do not know the man." She gazed at Miranda, her eyes awash with
tears. "I can but tell you to try the pond, for perhaps he is
acting with the wounded nature of the boy he used to be, before he
learned the truth."

Miranda did not even excuse herself before
fleeing the garden for the stables.

She tied Celestina several hundred yards away
from the pond and picked a path through the high grass until she
heard the sounds of rhythmic splashing. Had the dowager been right?
Was Simon fishing with such fury that the water splashed?

Within moments she could see him swimming,
pumping his arms furiously in the air as he raced toward the edge
of the pond where she stood. She watched for a moment, knowing that
he was coping with the battle within him, worried that he would
kill himself from the exertion.

Water cascaded from his body and yet still
the silence grew loud as he stood up in the waist-deep water and
shook himself. His gaze met hers and she burned from the anger in
his eyes.

"Go away, Miranda. I am not in the mood for
company."

"You will kill yourself with all this
exertion. Come and ride with me."

His laughter was bitter. "I would like
nothing better. But it is far safer for both of us if I stay in the
water and you ride home alone."

Miranda blushed, understanding the hidden
meaning in her words now that she had been privy to the talk of the
married women this weekend. In the heat of his passionate anger he
was too easily roused. It was amazing the difference in the
conversation between the married women and the conversations she
remembered from her partial Season as an unmarried virgin. Some of
the women seemed to relish inciting their husband's anger just to
get them into their beds.

The idea appealed to her. He could expend his
frantic energy upon her, and she could offer him the comfort a wife
offered a husband.

Certainly the risk was worth it, if only for
the fact that he would begin swimming again were she to leave. No
wonder he did not want to find a cure for himself. He thought
himself a bastard, unworthy of his title and position. And yet he
had been created to be duke with more forethought than most
children could claim. Three people had chosen to create him,
although two had apparently been destroyed in the process.

I will not let him be destroyed as were his
mother and father, she vowed to herself. I will show him that I am
proud to call him my husband. "I would prefer swimming. Surely that
is a more satisfying exertion than riding?"

Slowly, she began unfastening her bodice. She
had unhooked it completely before he closed his gaping mouth and
said sternly, "Go home, Miranda." His gaze, however, was trained
upon the skin that she was slowly revealing.

She stood nude for only a moment upon the
bank before modestly plunging into the water and wading toward him.
The pond was surprisingly cold and the moment after she began
regretting her impulse, she began worrying that the cold water
could not be good for him.

"If you insist upon exerting yourself, then
do so by making me your wife in truth. At least then I can put my
arms around you and hold you as I wish to. I can offer comfort —
and I will not be too wild, Simon. I promise you have nothing to
worry about from me."

Absurdly, as she approached him, he backed
toward the opposite bank. She stopped two feet away from him.
"Simon, I know we have been worried about your health, but this
time, even if I am not perfectly calm, I can do you no more harm
than this frantic swimming of yours."

Miranda's attention was pulled away for a
second, and she started quickly when something bumped her hip. She
looked down to see a silver fish nibbling at her, apparently in the
mistaken opinion that she was dinner. She cupped her hands to
capture the fish and with a gentle push, released it in the
opposite direction.

"I thought you would be fishing. That, at
least would be a peaceful sport."

"My health is my concern, Miranda. I have
told you that before."

She stepped closer to him, and this time he
didn't move away. Frustratingly, he did not seem any closer to
taking her in his arms, either — though his gaze slipped from hers
to rove lower more and more often.

"Simon, I know the idea of the duke deceiving
your mother as he did is intolerable to an honest man like you, but
you must not let such worries affect your health."

"My health is the last thing you should be
concerned with." The anger in his eyes was so fierce she actually
trembled at the sight of it. Or from the chill of the water. She
could not be certain.

"These things happened in the past. They do
not have to affect the present."

"Miranda, you do not understand — "

She opened her arms and stepped toward
him.

"Let me hold you, soothe you. I am your wife
..." Another fish bumped at her hip and she reached for it.
"Oh!"

Her fingers tightened on the "fish," and it
pulsed heatedly in her hand. Shocked she stared into Simon's face.
His eyes were closed and he was holding perfectly still.

"Miranda, please release me at once," he
said, his jaw barely moving.

She began to loosen her grip instantly, and
then changed her mind, tightening again. "Not until you agree to
let me be your wife in all ways, Simon."

He said nothing at all, moved not a muscle.
Curious, Miranda looked down into the murky water, but she could
not see what her fingers encircled.

With her thumb, she explored the rounded tip
of him, to find a Valley at the very center that made her feel a
dizzying rush of warmth throughout her limbs. For a moment, she
thought she might faint, she felt so very strange.

Simon did not allow himself to move when her
fingers curled over him. He could not. "Release me."

She looked down into the water. And then she
swayed toward him, her fingers tightening with delicious results.
He crushed her to him with a groan, and she had to grab his
shoulders for balance.

He buried his face in her neck and she
released him at last. But it was too late. Far too late. "Miranda
you have no idea what you're asking of me. This is impossible."

"You're wrong, Simon." She smiled as she
rubbed her silken belly against him, pressing closer.

He groaned again and tightened his arms
around her. "Miranda, Miranda, Miranda ... " His control broke as
he stared down into her eyes. There was a triumph in her eyes that
she had affected him. And no sign that she thought him one whit
less desirable now that she knew the truth.

The flash of triumph fled however, when he
bent to claim her mouth. He knew his passion was too much for her.
It was too much for him. But he could not stop.

He had wanted her five years ago, he had
wanted her that night in the hunter's cottage, and he wanted her
still.

She pushed against his chest with her hands
as if to slow his sensual assault, but he did not release her
mouth, and in a moment he felt her relax against him once again. He
lifted her easily, and carried her to the bank.

He touched her breasts, her throat, her
belly; he parted her thighs with his knee and rubbed himself
against her. He knew he was moving too quickly and tried to slow
himself. But when she brought her hips up to meet his, he was
consumed with the need to be one with her.

He did not pause, knowing and yet not able to
know, that he would regret this haste as he pushed into her,
entering her, stopping only for the briefest of times before he
groaned into her mouth, deepened his kiss, and pushed past the
flimsy barrier that was no barrier at all against his need.

It was only once he was deep inside her, when
she lay stiff and still under him that he remembered that he should
have been cautious. He took his mouth from hers and buried his head
in her neck, as still as he had been when she first touched him,
thinking he was a fish. He laughed raggedly against the dampness of
her skin. Certainly she would never make that mistake again.

She bucked her hips under him. "Simon, you're
hurting me. Stop."

He wanted to. He tried to. But the urge to
make her his was a burning need that overrode everything. His arms
tightened around her as he began to shake in a silent battle with
his body's need to stroke into her until he made her forget the
pain and cry out with the wonder of joining.

"Simon!" She tightened her arms around him
then and tried to roll him beneath her.

"Stay still, Miranda," he gritted out between
his teeth. "Stay very still, and I think I may manage to remove
myself before I — " He did not finish his sentence, but rolled away
from her and lay still for another moment. She reached out to touch
his hip and he jerked away from her as he began to shake. "Don't
touch me Miranda. For God's sake — and my own — don't touch
me."

She leaned over him, ever eager to ignore
what he told her. He looked into her beautiful eyes and wished with
all his heart that he could forget his burdens for a moment longer.
He had hurt her. Worst of all, if he had not hurt her, he would
never have had the strength to pull out of her before he achieved
his own release. And then he'd be worrying about babies.

"That should never have happened."

"Why not?" He could see she was hurt. But she
was trying to make sense of things, as always. "You seem to have
survived it, Simon." She smiled. "And I am your wife in truth, now,
am I not?"

He knew, suddenly, the words that would send
her away from him for good. "Of course I survived it. I am
perfectly capable of making love to you. I am not really dying
Miranda. I lied to you."

"You are not dying?" He could see her
confusion, but terribly, there was joy there. He needed to puncture
the hope that might even now be burgeoning in her fairytale
heart.

"No. But the bastard Duke of Kerstone
is."

"What riddle is this, Simon?" she asked
impatiently.

"No riddle. Just the truth, Miranda. The
truth I dared not give you before." He paused, to make sure that
she was heeding him closely. "In little over three months, the
bastard Duke of Kerstone will die. The dukedom and all its
responsibilities will be handed over to Arthur, the rightful
heir."

She stared at him with incomprehension and
suddenly he knew a way to convince her. He rummaged through the
clothing piled upon the bank and pulled out the leather pouch she
had eyed so curiously for so long. Without a word, he tossed it to
her.

She held it as she stared at him. And then
she opened it and, hands trembling, began to read the first of two
folded pages. When she was done with the two pages, she hefted the
envelope marked For the eyes of the Duke of Kerstone only and
looked up. "This is sealed, should I open it?"

"It will be opened by Arthur when he
inherits. Until then, I will keep it safe with me, to remind me of
what I am — and am not."

She quietly put the two pages and the sealed
envelope back into the leather pouch and fastened it closed before
she handed it to him.

He wondered if she had truly taken all the
implications in when she asked merely, "Where will you go?"

"To America. To a city called Charleston. I
have acquired a modest property there."

She watched him, saying nothing, but he could
see the narrowing of her eyes as she pondered his answer. And then
her breath caught and her eyes locked with his. "Oh." Her eyes
filled with tears. "And you were going to leave me behind."

He did not want to see her pain, her growing
distrust. For a moment he wished that she would refuse to believe
it of him. But then, why would she not believe it of him? Had he
not married her, tantalized her with kisses and caresses, yet
refused to make love with her? He said grudgingly, "You would have
been an honorable widow."

"I would have been a virgin widow." She
colored brightly, the flush descending to the tops of her breasts,
and he wanted to laugh, to groan, to listen to his mother and let
everyone believe he deserved to be the Duke of Kerstone.

But he did not. "I didn't mean to make love
to you. I should never have touched you." He had the blood of a
cowardly Watterly in him. A man who would bed his own father's
wife. That alone tainted him beyond redemption.