Lord of Ice (9 page)

“Miranda?” He approached hesitantly, crouching down beside her chair. He scanned her face in worry. “Are you all right? Shall I send for the headmistress to sit with you for a moment?”

She did not answer. She could not.

“My dear, you are so pale.” He reached to steady her. “Let me call for smelling salts—”

“Don’t . . . touch me,”
she hissed, jerking away from him. She drew back, staring at him in loathing, her whole body trembling. “This . . . is not true. This,” she whispered, “is the cruelest, lowest trick I have ever beheld in my life.”

He tilted his head back with a startled look as she swept to her feet before him.

“You’re a fraud!” she wrenched out, tears leaping into her eyes. “Do you take me for a fool? Uncle Jason isn’t dead! He did not survive six years of war only to be shot in his own home by a b-burglar! He could defend himself against any stupid thief!”

“He was drunk,” he whispered.

“It’s a lie! He’s coming for me! He
is
! Why don’t you admit what you really want, you disgusting brute? My answer is still the same!”

He rose, his face etched with taut self-control, as though he was determined to set aside her insults and show mercy. “Jason was my friend. One of the few I had left. I would never lie about such a thing. I have no designs on you. Our meeting last night was merest chance. Such things are banished between us now. You are my ward. If you had only told me your name last night, I never would have touched you.”

“I didn’t tell you, but you found me anyway!”

“I wasn’t looking for you, Miranda,” he said wearily. “I was too busy having a bullet extracted from my arm.” He reached into his waistcoat, pulled out a folded letter, and handed it to her. “Here, if you don’t believe me.”

“What is it?”

“See for yourself.”

Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely unfold the letter; her mind was in such a tumult that she barely comprehended what she read. Still, she concentrated long enough to gather that the document purported to be a page copied from Uncle Jason’s will and an explanation from his solicitor.

“Meaningless. It could be a forgery,” she said tautly, thrusting the papers back into Lord Winterley’s hands.

He stared at her in astonishment.

She swallowed hard, facing him in defiance, though she was only on eye level with his cravat pin. “If you were really such great friends with my uncle, he would’ve mentioned you in his letters. He used to write to me about all his fellow officers, but he never spoke of anyone by the name of Lord Winterley. Never!”

“I was only given the title a month ago. If Jason ever wrote to you about me, he would have referred to me as Damien Knight.”

She froze and stared at him, wide-eyed, as the world lurched violently. The blood drained from her face. “Damien . . . Knight?”

“Ah, so you have heard of me,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing in satisfaction.

“Damien—the captain of the grenadier company?” she forced out.

“Used to be. Colonel now.”

“Damien . . . with the twin brother?”

He nodded, looking relieved. “Yes, that would be Lucien.”

Miranda stared at him, at a loss. Captain Lord Damien Knight had been her uncle’s idol. In his letters, the Knight twins had stood out larger than life, but it had always been Damien, the elder of the pair, like some storybook prince, who had been the hero of the tales. Damien—storming the walls of an ancient Spanish citadel, recapturing cannons stolen by the French, facing down perilous cavalry charges, pulling wounded comrades off the field under a hail of artillery fire.

“Ask me something about Jason, if you don’t believe me. I knew your uncle as well as I know myself. As a matter of fact, there’s a lot I know about you, too.”

“Me?” She looked up quickly, her face ashen. “Like what?”

“I know you don’t want to accept this because you’ve already suffered the loss of your parents,” he said softly. “You saw them drown.”

She sucked in her breath and backed away from him, the hairs on her nape standing on end. “How do you know that?”

“Jason used to talk about you all the time. He used to read us your letters in the mess at night because we were all so . . . damned homesick.” With a sudden thoughtful look, he tapped his lips for a moment. “Do you remember a doll he sent you from the bazaar at Lisbon one year? I think it was, er, a Spanish lady sort of doll with a lace mantilla.”

She nodded, scarcely comprehending.

“I picked it out for you.”

“What?”

“Well, my brother and I both did,” he amended. “We were sending one home to our little sister and we thought of you, as well, because ever since Albuera, Sherbrooke was, er, I’m afraid he was a little forgetful.”

Yes, he was.
“No!” she cried in shock, sweeping her hands up to cover her mouth as the truth hit her with overwhelming force. This was real. This was no sinister ploy for her seduction. Her dear uncle was dead.

Barely aware of Damien’s hands steadying her, she sank back down to the chair, her head reeling. She was senseless to his whispered words of comfort, but she reached blindly for his handkerchief when he offered it to her. While she wept with shocked grief, trying to absorb the unfairness of her uncle’s death, Damien crouched at her knee like some great, savage guard dog, bristling with fierce protectiveness.

“I will find the man who did this, Miranda. I swear it to you.”

“And do what? Kill him, too?” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t you ever get tired of so much death?”

He paled at her angry outburst, staring at her. “I am more tired of it than you can possibly comprehend,” he said hollowly after a pause. “My friend is dead.”

The heartsick tone of his voice took her aback. She stopped crying abruptly, realizing she was not the only one in this room who had lost a loved one. In that moment, she looked into Damien’s eyes, seeing past his archangel’s beauty to the soul within, harrowed with pain; even now, she could feel the razor-edged tension in him, could see it in the broad, stiff lines of his shoulders.

He watched her with wolflike wariness, his high cheekbones shadowing the narrow planes of his cheeks, his fierce eyes guarded beneath the sweep of his inky lashes. He had the bleak, embittered gaze of a man who has lost more of his comrades than he can count. She had lost her uncle, but she hadn’t even seen Jason in ages; this man had lost a friend who had been in his company nearly every hour of every day for the past six years. She understood now why he had come looking for a girl last night to comfort him.

As fresh tears rose in her eyes, she lifted her hand and touched the small scar that nicked the corner of his left eyebrow, then, without a word, pulled him into her arms.

She felt him tense uncertainly, the muscles in his back hardening with rigid grief, then, hesitantly, he accepted her embrace, sliding his arms around her waist. She squeezed her eyes shut. For several minutes, they clung to each other like two castaways washed up on a foreign shore, the sole survivors of some shipwreck. She could almost feel the crystallized anger pulsating within him. His big, powerful, warrior’s body shook with the effort to contain it. With a vague, sorrowful wince, she pressed his head against her bosom and stroked his silky black hair, calming him, brushing aside the knowledge that the man she held in her arms could turn into a virtual killing machine in the blink of an eye. He was also the man who had saved her life.

“Damien Knight, I know he thought the world of you,” she whispered.

He suddenly pulled back and stared at her for a second, consternation written across his angular features, as though his own response to her solace had confused him. Their faces were mere inches apart. At this close range, she saw the fear in his eyes. Without forethought, she touched his cheek gently, easing him with a little caress.

His glance dipped longingly to her lips, and the hunger in him that she had tasted last night was suddenly there once more between them, alive, electric, crackling like lightning. She pulled back abruptly; his startled gaze flew back up to her eyes, as though her movement had jarred him out of the trance. Mumbling a gruff apology, he swept to his feet, his vulnerable expression vanishing. He turned away and paced restlessly across the room. Miranda watched him, her heart pounding.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I propose we make a pact to forget last night ever happened.”

“How can we?” she whispered.

Perhaps he had not heard her question, for he ignored it. “I shall be taking you to London where we will spend Christmas with my family. One of my kinswomen will act as your chaperon. You shall want for nothing. I know this all comes as a shock, but you have a whole new life ahead of you. Try to think of that. You’ll have all the things you young ladies like—ball gowns and suitors and whatnot. There will be a large number of social occasions between Christmas and Twelfth Night. Parties, concerts, dances. Society will be a bit thin this time of year; nevertheless, I have every confidence that we can swiftly find you a suitable husband.”

“A husband?” she echoed in astonishment.

“Of course.” He pivoted, his chin high, his expression guarded and aloof. “That’s what Jason wanted for you. I daresay you’re old enough. I gave your uncle my word that I would see you respectably settled in life, and that is exactly what I intend to do. Now then, if you are quite composed, run along and pack your things. The journey to London takes two days. Bring only what you need. We’ll travel light and post the rest to Knight House—that is the home of my eldest brother, the duke of Hawkscliffe. I have a sister about your age who lives there, as well. Her governess will help look after you.”

Miranda stared at him, scarcely comprehending. This was all moving much too fast.

“Everything’s going to be all right, Miranda. Go and get your things together,” he prodded softly. “Keep moving, love. That’s your best remedy. We can still reach Coventry by dark.”

“Obviously, I owe you my thanks,” she said, struggling for clarity, “for saving me from those ruffians last night, for your friendship to my uncle, for your generous offer. But I do not wish to go to London. I shall be staying here with my friends.”

She dared not blindly entrust herself to this elemental warrior; the image of him standing on that snowy ridge, barbaric and magnificent, bathed in moonlight, streaked with blood, would be forever imprinted on her mind. Besides, the minute she left Yardley, she knew what would happen to Amy.

For a fraction of an instant, she considered telling Damien about Mr. Reed’s unnatural proclivities, but discarded the notion with a shudder. She could not possibly bring herself to tell a virtual stranger something so personal and so humiliating.

He was shaking his head at her warily. “This is nonsense, Miranda. You can’t stay here. You’re too old to be at school. It’s time to move on. Look at this dismal place. You don’t really want to be here.” He paused, resting his hands on his lean waist. “I daresay the only reason you could possibly wish to stay is so that you can keep sneaking out to the Pavilion. Isn’t that right?”

She said nothing, bristling at his condescending tone.

“Miranda, Miranda, it seems you and I need to have a little chat. Put first things first.” Sauntering over to Mr. Reed’s desk, he sat casually on the corner of it, one foot braced on the floor. Loosely clasping his hands on his thigh, he held her in a penetrating stare, looking every inch the despotic army colonel. “Listen very carefully, my dear. Your playacting days are over; you have taken your final bow. You may be accustomed to duping your caretakers and running around the countryside half naked, but mademoiselle, you are my ward now. I will not tolerate insubordination.”

Her nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply with indignation. She lifted her chin, but managed to hold her tongue.

“Oh, you don’t like that, eh?” he taunted softly. “Well, glare all you want. Be advised, however, that I’ve turned some two thousand ignorant, malingering farm boys into disciplined soldiers capable of whipping Soult, Massena, and Boney himself, so I assure you, you can’t win. You don’t scare me, and I already know every trick in the book. Lord, if Jason could have seen you on that stage last night, he would have thrown you in a convent. I’m half tempted to myself. But in light of how you have been allowed to run wild, I am prepared to give you a fair chance to start anew. From now on, you will conduct yourself in a manner befitting a respectable young lady. You will not embarrass me, my family, or your uncle’s memory. Is that perfectly clear?”

“No!”