The Fairy Tale Bride (5 page)

Her words were a blow to him, but he hid his
pain with a quick smile. "I'll have you know, Miss Fenster, that I
once, quite foolishly, nearly offered for a young woman based on
the color of her eyes and the quickness of her smile. Only Fate
intervened in time to save us both from an unhappy union." Fate,
and the burden he carried next to his heart every waking
moment.

He saw her curiosity pique, but she asked
nothing of who, as many a woman might. "Nonsense. That is not love
— liking a woman's eyes and smile. That is physical attraction. I
am talking of a meeting of the souls and minds of two individuals
who are meant for each other — like Cinder Ella and her prince, or
Rapunzel and the man brave enough to climb far from solid ground to
reach her tower."

As she stared at him, fully expecting him to
agree with her romantic drivel, Simon suddenly had no doubt that
hero-worship was an even more dangerous emotion than the avarice
felt by the army of young women angling to marry him by fair method
or foul.

She was so serene, so certain that he posed
no danger to her reputation that he suddenly wanted to discompose
her as badly as she had unsettled him. "Can you be so sure? What do
you know of the power of physical attraction?"

Her smile faltered and she quickly turned her
attention back to the apple in her hand. "I have had a few suitors
since Mama and Papa's death."

Knowing the kind of men who would have
offered for a young woman without parental guidance, Simon's
stomach clenched in anger. "And you found none of them
acceptable?"

She shook her head. "That burst of physical
attraction you spoke of seems to bring most men to behave in
completely unacceptable ways." She sighed. "But you yourself have
risen above such physical cravings, Your Grace, so you must
recognize that there is something finer, and more satisfying in a
higher meeting of souls."

For a moment, Simon considered revealing how
much he had been enjoying the way her soaked muslin gown revealed
her slender figure. He imagined her lips parting slightly in shock.
But then she would cover herself, no doubt regaining that
formidable composure of hers within minutes. No, he needed
something more ... shocking ... to bring Miss Fenster to her
senses. And he did not want to forgo the pleasure the sight of her
curves gave him. It was like probing a sore tooth with his tongue:
looking at her, knowing the danger — to them both — in seducing
her.

His own clothes were as soaked through as
hers, which gave him the idea for which he sought. He had already
stripped his sodden jacket off and thrown it over a stool near the
fire. Casually, as if he did not know she was watching him from the
corner of her eye as she worked, Simon stood, unfastened his shirt,
pulled it loose from his breeches and removed it. He hung it on the
iron pothook for the fireplace, positioning the hook so that the
shirt was far enough away not to burn, but close enough to dry
quickly in the heat from the fire.

He seated himself on the stool, removed first
one boot, then the other, placing them neatly beside a dusty pile
of blankets. He stood up, reaching for the fastening of his
breeches.

At last, she gasped. "What are you
doing?"

He turned slowly to savor the sight of her,
jaw agape, frozen in surprise with a bowl of fruit cradled in her
arms, as if for protection. Wickedly, he spun the moment out just
slightly longer than necessary before he answered, "I'm ensuring
that I don't take ill. Shouldn't you do the same?"

At that, she looked down at her own gown, the
skirts dragging the ground from the weight of the water, then back
up at him. There was a puzzled frown on her face that deepened as
he started to peel away his riding breeches. But she did not turn
away from him as he had expected. Instead, she stared at him, up
and down the length of him, with a hint of wonder.

Suddenly, with her gaze transfixed upon him,
he felt as shy as an untried boy. He snapped, "I am not a ham, Miss
Fenster. Kindly stop gawking as if you were at market."

He was warned by the narrowing of her eyes.
"If I were at market, and you were a ham, I should certainly not
ogle you. You are no gentleman to insult me so." She whirled away,
but not so quickly that he couldn't see her mouth twist in pain as
her injured ankle gave way and she lost her balance.

Simon started forward to offer a steady hand
as she struggled to maintain her balance against the hampering
cling of her wet skirts. Before he could reach her, she lost the
struggle with a last toss of her arms. The bowl of fruit she had
held struck him in the chest, taking his breath away. She landed in
a sprawl on the floor.

He held out his hand to her, unable to resist
a gentle barb. "You can see now how dangerous wet clothing can
be."

She refused his hand as she rose. Without
looking at him, she swept her disarranged hair from her cheek where
it clung. She had the grace to blush and suddenly he was not so
much angry as sad. A woman with such courage and loyalty, not to
mention that unique flair for skirting disaster, would have made an
unforgettable duchess – under his tutelage to smooth out the
unfortunate tendency to impulsiveness, of course.

But that was not to be. Anything he had to
teach her must be taught tonight. He felt the old emotional wound
open as he stared at her hair, half fallen out and curling with the
damp. And she certainly deserved a lesson for this foolishness. If
he were any other man, he had no doubt that she would have her
skirts around her ears, by now. The thought made him groan aloud as
he captured a handful of damp curls, the same color as cinnamon,
and let them rest in his open palm. "You should see to your own
health, Miss Fenster. You are as wet as I."

Her eyes were huge, but still trusting. He
wanted, more than anything at that moment, to make love to her, to
make sure that she would never put herself in this position again.
He stepped closer. "It would be a misfortune should you take ill
…before I have received my compensation for the trouble you have
put me through."

She breathed shallowly, as she tried to avoid
his bare flesh. "I agree that you deserve some recompense, Your
Grace. Perhaps I might shine your boots?"

He was tempted to laugh, which amazed him. He
had not laughed in a long time and Miss Fenster had coaxed the urge
more than once in under an hour. "I would prefer payment of another
kind. Do I dare hope that the infamous Miss Fenster will agree? I
well remember the black eye Grimthorpe sported the morning of the
duel."

Her trembling lips tightened and her voice
was a soft whisper. "Mother never told me that I'd blackened his
eye. I'm surprised she didn't add that to my long list of sins."
Her chin came up a fraction more, and suddenly the blade of the
paring knife rested against the flat of his stomach. "As you were
not harmed then by my actions, Your Grace, I cannot believe you
would allow me to be harmed now by yours."

Though he was relieved that she had the sense
to realize she was in danger, Simon reacted as swiftly as if she
had been a London cutthroat, disarming her of the knife before she
blinked.

Her eyes wide, she stared at the knife he now
held, as she cradled her wrist gently in her other hand. He had not
the slightest doubt that she would not have harmed him. Still, it
was better that she know she was outmatched. She might take the
lesson to heart, at last.

A smile twitched on her lips as she breathed
out softly. "You are magnificent. How could you disarm me so
swiftly?"

Magnificent? He was magnificent? Did the
dashed woman not understand that he was seducing her? Simon used
the back of his hand to stroke gently and slowly from her chin to
her ear. She stood still for his caress, making no protest, not
even the softest of sighs. Her eyes captured his. He did not know
how to read them, did not know how to look away. Her skin was firm
and silky under his fingertips. Simon closed his eyes briefly. When
would she protest? When would she finally believe he had gone too
far?

Goading her further, Simon drew his
forefinger across her lips. They parted slightly, her breath came
warm on his finger. And all the while, her gaze was upon his,
trusting, worshiping and, dear God, desiring. Simon fought his urge
to touch her lips with his own, or to allow his hands to explore
the curves displayed by the clinging of her damp clothing.

He reminded himself sternly that he wanted a
reaction from her, not from himself. But Miss Fenster swayed toward
him slightly, apparently unable to oblige him with the affronted
response he was seeking. And all he could think of was that she
could have been his wife. He could have had her in his bed every
night.

Pain supplanted desire at the thought; he
could not bear to seduce her and discover fully what it was that he
had lost.

With a sigh, he grasped her shoulders and
turned her away from him so that he could unfasten her dress. Her
shoulders stiffened in his grip.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was husky –
with fear, he hoped.

"Helping you out of your wet things. You can
drape yourself in a blanket." He wondered if his impertinence would
finally spur her into response. But she stood silently as he peeled
the clothing away from her back.

Simon exhaled sharply. "What is this?"
Through her damp, practically transparent chemise he could see the
faint, but unmistakable white scars that came from severe lashing.
One of his fingers came up to trace a scar that snaked wickedly
down to the small of her back and beyond.

She shivered and pulled away from him. "My
father did not approve of my outspoken nature." Her shoulders
stiffened, and he heard the ring of defiance in her words. "I will
never let another man have such complete power over me that he
could beat me for my belief in my own abilities."

Anger swept through him and made his words
intemperate. "You say you will not give a man power over you, and
yet you stand here, uncorseted, in a dress so damp it hides not one
curve – except for at the bosom, where it threatens very enticingly
to fall away and display your breasts."

She stared down at her loosened bodice and
clutched it tight. But she did not pull away from him.

He sighed. "You have allowed me to all but
undress you, Miss Fenster. I daresay I could take you here and now
if I wished."

She opened her mouth as if to protest, and
then closed it. For a moment, uncertainty crossed her features.

She blinked rapidly, and he realized that she
was about to admit her weakness. He turned away from her, to
prevent the confession for it was best left unsaid. He crossed the
room and tossed a blanket to her across the few feet between
them.

She blushed crimson. "I was not thinking
…"

"That, my dear Miss Fenster," he interrupted
her hastily, "seems to be a trait you and your brother share."

He had hit a nerve with that, he saw, when
she drew herself up haughtily and replied, "Valentine's integrity
is as great as yours, Your Grace." She crossed the few feet of
distance between them to stand close enough to burn him with the
heat of anger in her eyes.

He realized that she still had no idea what
she risked being here alone with him. Her head was full of dreams
and ideals of love and honor. It struck him that she was still as
naive about men and women as she had been five years ago. So far,
she had been fortunate to have been pursued by men for whom she had
felt no physical passion.

He shuddered, thinking of how willing she had
been for his caresses. All because he was a hero of some trumped-up
tales of bravery she had heard secondhand. He closed his eyes. In
London there would be dozens more "heroes" who could ignite that
same fire, no matter how much his ego cried out that she felt such
things only for him. And, despite her father's cruel discipline,
she had no defenses in place to prevent her own ruination.

His urge was to call upon Valentine and
insist that a husband be found for Miranda at once. But he had no
right to do such a thing. And he could not, without Valentine
learning the whole story. Still, he felt a strong desire to ... to
show her just what danger she courted.

Even as he took her in his arms and bent his
head to kiss her, he told himself he intended to give her no more
than a taste of what could happen when a woman was at the mercy of
a rake. But when she opened her mouth under his in a small gasp of
surprise and then curled her hands around his neck, he forgot all
but the taste of her.

CHAPTER THREE

A scrabbling noise from the loft above cut
into Simon's consciousness.

Reluctantly, he pulled away from Miranda,
holding a finger to his lips that turned her bemusement into a
narrow-eyed silence. He was fleetingly glad to see that her cheeks
were flushed. He hoped it was a sign that he had taught her to be
wary.

With the stealth and silence that had kept
him alive more than once, he grasped the frayed rope that hung from
a ceiling beam and handed himself slowly and silently up into the
tiny loft area. Except for a little moldering hay put by in one
corner, the rest of the loft was swept bare of anything but a layer
of mouse and owl droppings.

Simon grabbed up the pitchfork, brandishing
it as if it were a bayonet. "Come out of there now," he said in the
voice that had made his bravest men jump.

There was a twitch in the hay, but nothing
more.

Simon directed his attention to the area of
the twitch and swore softly at the sight of a bare foot protruding
from the hay. It was covered with grime — and small. "Come out,
boy."

There was no movement from the hay. Behind
him, Miranda gasped. "It is but a child you're frightening?"