Unconquered (44 page)

There were six stone crocks in the basket she carried, and she hummed a little snatch of tune as she moved briskly along. She chuckled to herself. It was “Yankee Doodle”! Lucas was going to be very surprised to see her. She wondered again what he looked like. Was he handsome? Were his features fine, or those of a large peasant? Would it make any difference to the way she felt. What
did
she feel? She simply hadn’t sorted all that out yet. Somehow she believed that she had to feel something for a man who made love to her, but then she realized that her experience didn’t offer answers. She was still learning, and she seemed to understand so little.

There ahead were the men’s quarters, a one-story whitewashed wooden building. Outside were several attractive young men kicking a ball around. Her cheeks grew pink when she saw that they wore only loincloths. They reminded her of a painting of a group of young athletes in ancient Greece that hung in Amanda’s London town house. Every one of them was a light-eyed blond!

When they saw her they began dancing around her, making kissing noises with their lips and suggestive gestures. One managed a quick kiss to her cheek. Swinging around, Miranda slapped his face hard, to the delighted guffaws of the others. She was glad that she could not understand what they were saying, for she would have been twice as embarrassed as she already was. Eyes straight ahead, she walked determinedly toward the building while they continued to tease her.

“Christos, what a beauty!”

“Who is she!”

“With that coloring? She has to be Lucas’s new woman.”

“The lucky bastard! God, I’m getting hard just looking at her! How come he always gets the best piece to fuck?”

“Probably because he does his job better than any of the rest of us. Lucky devil!”

“Do you think he’d share her?”

“Would you?”

“Hell, no!”

Miranda went inside the building. She was sure that none of the men outside was Lucas. Entering the kitchen, she immediately bumped into a huge man. She gazed up at him, her heart hammering, wondering whether the man with the golden beard was Paulus, Lucas’s brother.

He tipped her face up, looked boldly down at her, and fingered her silken hair. “As always,” he said roughly, “my little brother has had incredible good fortune.”

She couldn’t understand what he said, but she didn’t particularly like the look in his eye. Quickly his hands moved over her body, lingering a moment on her breasts. Angrily she pulled away and walked across the room to where two older women sat shelling peas. She addressed the two women in her excellent French. “I have brought the plum preserves from Marya.”

“Thank you, child. Will you sit and take a glass of tea with us?”

“No, thank you,” she answered, feeling foolish and out of place.

“Please thank our sister.”

“I shall.” Miranda practically ran from the kitchen and out of the building. The young men did not bother her now, and she quickly made her way across the grassy yard, fleeing down to the beach.

The light breeze brushed against her hot cheeks. How silly she had been to go there. She wasn’t really interested in what he looked like. It didn’t matter at all, and it was probably better she not know. She would endure his attentions as long as she had to before she could make good her escape.

“
Miranda!
” He was suddenly behind her.

She began to run, but he caught her easily, and pulled her back tightly against him. “No,” she said.

He laughed softly. “If you want to see what I look like you have but to turn around, little bird.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“My brother came and woke me. He admires you tremendously, but then he always wants what I have.” He nuzzled at her neck, gently biting it. “I can’t get enough of you, little bird. You are in my blood now.”

She pulled free, took a hesitant step away from him, and then turned quickly around. Her breath caught in her throat and her
sea-green eyes widened in amazement. Before her stood the most incredibly beautiful human being she had ever seen in her life. His oval face was classic, with high, sculpted cheekbones, a high, broad forehead, and a firm, square chin with a deep cleft in it that matched hers. His nose was long, narrow, and straight. His blazing turquoise-blue eyes were set well apart and heavily fringed with dark, thick lashes. His mouth was generous without the disadvantage of thick lips. His blond hair was short and waved, and his big body was perfectly proportioned. Miranda could not help but think how wonderful he would look in elegant London fashions. Women would beg for this man’s attentions. He was magnificent, standing here almost naked, the sun lighting his bronzed chest and thighs and muscled arms.

“You are beautiful,” she said, finally finding her voice.

His deep laughter rumbled. “Then you are not disappointed in me, little bird?”

“No,” she said slowly. “I am amazed that anyone could be so … so perfect in both face and form. However, I am afraid I shall disappoint you when I tell you it would not have mattered to me if you had been as ugly as you are fair.”

“Why not?” he demanded, puzzled.

“Because in the dark hut, when I was frightened, you were kind to me, and patient. You cared more for how I felt than for your own wants.”

“Any man—” he began, but she cut him short.

“No! Another man would have raped me. Your brother would have taken me instantly to satisfy his own lust. You are special, Lucas.” Then without another word she turned and ran back up the beach toward the villa. He did not follow her. He stood on the beach watching her hurry up the hill.

He had best be careful not to fall in love with her. But then, he was already in love with her, Lucas thought ruefully. His trick had always been to make his women feel loved, for a loved woman was a happier creature. But now …

He hoped he could help her adjust to her life. For the first time in years he wondered what it would be like to live as an ordinary man. How wonderful to have a house of his own, where Miranda would live by his side and bear his children, children they would raise together. Then Lucas laughed at himself. He remembered the glorious days of his freedom, days of bitter poverty, with
never enough to eat. In the winter rainy season they had always been cold, for there was never enough fuel. As Prince Cherkessky’s slave he had a warm home and all his wants taken care of. It was better this way. He did not choose to share Miranda with anyone, even their child. He wondered how Miranda’s husband had felt about sharing her with their son.

At that moment, Jared Dunham was feeling nothing. Drunk and unconscious, he was returned to Swynford Hall by his three anxious servants and Captain Ephraim Snow. At the sound of the carriage in the drive, Amanda, Lady Swynford, had hurried outside to greet her sister and Jared. Instead, she found herself facing a nightmare. Her gentle world had been invaded by horror. She watched as Jared was removed from the coach and wrinkled her nose in distaste as Martin and Mitchum carried him past her, for he smelled simply dreadful! Whiskey! He stank to high heaven of whisky!

Sobbing, Perky stumbled down from the vehicle, her pretty face red and swollen with weeping. She took one look at Amanda, and began wailing. “Oh, milady! Oh! Oh! Oh!”

“Where is Miranda?” demanded Amanda, her heart hammering. “Where is my sister, Perkins?”

Perky wailed, “She’d gone, milady! She’s gone!”

Amanda fainted. When she was revived by means of aromatic spirits and a burnt feather waved beneath her nose, both Adrian and Jonathan were by her side. Gently they told her Captain Snow’s tale, and she listened, unaware that tears were pouring down her little face. When they had finished and a heavy silence filled the air, Amanda wept in her husband’s arms but found no comfort. Finally, after several moments, she said, “She is not dead. My sister is not dead!”

“Sweetheart,” begged Adrian, “I know how painful this is for you, but you must not delude yourself. You must not!”

“Oh Adrian, you don’t understand! If Miranda were really dead I would know it. I would know! Twins are different from just sisters, Adrian. If Miranda were really dead I would feel it, and I just don’t!”

“She is in shock,” said Jonathan.

“I most certain am not in shock!”

“Eventually she will come to accept it,” continued Jonathan

“I am not in shock!” repeated Amanda, but they paid no attention to her. Instead they fed her tea laced with laudanum so she would sleep.

A day later, Amanda awoke with a pounding headache and a firmer conviction that her twin was not dead. She tried to explain it again to Adrian, but he only looked distressed and called for his mama to come up from the dower house to reason with his wife whom, he was sure, teetered on the brink of insanity.

“I am not mad,” Amanda said to Agatha Swynford.

“I know that, my gel,” came the reply.

“Then why will Adrian not listen to me?”

The dowager chuckled. “Amanda, you know as well as I do that as dear a man as Adrian is, he lacks imagination. For my son, the world must be either black or white, fish or fowl. He cannot accept anything in between. For him, the evidence of Miranda’s death is unassailable, therefore she is dead.”

“
No!
”

“Why do you feel so strong she is not?” asked the dowager.

“I told Adrian that twins are different, but I cannot make him understand it. Miranda and I look different, our personalties are certainly different, yet there is something between us, some awareness we have always shared. I have no name for it, but Miranda and I have always known when the other was in trouble. We have even been able to speak to each other without words. If she were gone from this earth I should know because I would feel it. But I don’t.”

“Is it possible, my gel,” said the woman quietly, “that you do not sense the loss of this feeling between Miranda and yourself because you do not wish to sense it? Death is a closed door, impossible to reopen. I understand how close you two were.”

“Miranda is not dead,” said Amanda firmly.

“Then where the hell is she?” demanded Jonathan angrily six weeks later when Amanda persisted in her belief. “My brother has been drunk for over a month now, and if there is to be any chance of his recovering then he must face the truth.
Miranda is dead!
I won’t allow you to give Jared false hopes!”

“Captain Snow never saw a body!” gentle Amanda shouted back at Jonathan. “The Russian official only said that the body was that of a blond woman. Miranda isn’t a true blond, and when her hair is wet it is more silver than pale-gilt gold.”

“What of the ring? The dress?”

“Someone could have dressed another woman in Miranda’s things. How do we even know there was a body?”

“My God, Amanda, are you mad? You make it sound like a plot! Miranda was the unfortunate victim of a robbery.”

“A robbery committed by someone arriving in a coach bearing the British Ambassador’s crest. Doesn’t that seem strange to you, Jon. Even Captain Snow has his doubts.”

“All right, I cannot explain the carriage, but whatever the truth, one thing is certain. Miranda Dunham is dead!”

“No!” Amanda had never felt so frustrated or so angry in her entire life. Why did they not understand? “No, Jon, my sister is not dead. Whatever you tell me, she is not dead!” She turned her back on him so he might not see the tears filling her blue eyes. She jumped, startled, as surprisingly strong hands grasped at her shoulders and spun her around.

“Miranda is dead, kitten,” said Jared Dunham. He was unshaven, gaunt, and hollow-eyed. But he was sober. “I have spent over a month trying to hide from that truth, Amanda. I am sure I have half-emptied Adrian’s fine cellars. But eventually there is no escaping it. My wife is dead. My beautiful wildcat is gone, and part of the blame for it must rest with me.”

“Jared—” Jonathan and Amanda spoke simultaneously.

“No,” he answered them, a sad little smile briefly crossing his face. “That is another truth I have faced. I did not value my wife enough. If I had I would have told Mr. Adams and Lord Palmerston no. Instead I selfishly mounted my noble charger and self-righteously galloped off to help right the world’s wrongs. My first duty was to Miranda. I failed in that duty, but I will not fail the magnificent legacy she has left me—our son. I am taking him up to my house in London where we will wait out the war. I don’t believe I could face Wyndsong quite yet.”

Amanda was deeply troubled by this. “Please,” she said, “please leave little Tom with us here at Swynford, Jared. At least for a little while. The air in town is so bad for a child. I know Miranda would agree. Go to London if you must, and mourn my sister in private, but leave little Tom with us.”

“I will mourn Miranda for the rest of my life,” declared Jared grimly, but no more was said about taking the young Dunham heir to London.

Jonathan Dunham and Anne Bowen, now publicly acquainted for almost two months, announced that they had eloped. Amanda thought perhaps they ought to plan a ball to celebrate the joyful news, but Adrian wouldn’t hear of it. They were all in mourning for Miranda. According to the story they circulated to explain her disappearance, Miranda had been swept overboard from her yacht in a sudden squall. Local society chattered enthusiastically. The Dunhams and the Swynfords had provided them with enough gossip to gnaw on during this dull time between seasons.

How fortunate Mistress Bowen was to have snared the Yankee. He was handsome and rich to boot—and her with two children—but then it was said that he had three! Then there was the deliciously macabre coincidence of both the Dunham brothers’ first wives dying in boating accidents. Best of all was the fact that that elegant devil Lord Dunham would soon be back on the marriage market. He would not, he had announced, mourn a full year for his beautiful wife. At the end of three months he would re-enter society.

Although the season did not officially begin until after the new year, Jared Dunham went up to London in early December. He had no desire to be at Swynford on St. Nicholas Day. They would have been married for two years, and on that sad evening he sat alone in his study before a big crackling fire sipping smuggled French brandy. In his hand he held a small miniature of Miranda painted by Thomas Lawrence, England’s most prominent portrait painter.