Miranda (15 page)

Cool air from a high, open window rushed over her. She felt a faint stab of surprise, for Yvette always kept a lamp or candle burning each night until Miranda came to bed. The wind must have blown out the flame. Only the uncertain, wavering gray light of the moon spilled through the glass door leading out to the balcony.

Macbeth whined again; then a growl rumbled in his throat.

“Yvette?” Miranda called. “Are you there?” Putting out a hand, she made her way into the room and toward the door that led to the maid's quarters. “Yvette?” she called again.

A faint thump sounded somewhere near the window.

Macbeth's low growl crescendoed to a ragged snarl.

Miranda turned toward the window.

A hulking shadow streaked toward her. She had no time to scream, no time to think. The hulk slammed her back against a wall. Something closed around her throat, biting into her neck, choking off her breath.

No no no no...
She could offer only silent protests. She kicked out, but her skirts hampered her.

One hundred pounds of furious, smelly deerhound leaped at the assailant. Miranda felt the pressure on her neck loosen, then drop. In the pitch-darkness she saw nothing, but she could hear the dog growling and cloth ripping.

A moment later, she heard the sound of the shattering window. She staggered up and made her way to the balcony door. Broken glass crunched under her shoes. A shard sliced into her finger when she freed the latch on the window and gingerly swung it open.

Macbeth pushed past her and put his front paws on the balcony edge.

“Stay,” Miranda said in a rasping, breathless voice. The trembling started in her heart and then radiated outward along her limbs until she was shaking uncontrollably.

Thick shadows hung in the gardens below. Somewhere in the gloom was the man who had just tried to kill her.

Twelve

Almost all our misfortunes in life
come from the wrong notions we have
about the things that happen to us.

—Stendhal

I
an dreamed of flying again.

In his dream he was a boy fleeing along the dales of Crough na Muir while darkness, like a cloud shadow, raced to overcome him. Determined to escape, he pushed his feet off the ground and soared.

The village receded below, and the great, vast sea spread out endlessly before him. He flew toward the sun, to a place of light, closer and closer until he could feel its golden warmth. His cares melted away—the English mercenaries could not reach him here. He could no longer hear their lewd laughter or see their idiot grins or their cruel hands with the bayoneted muskets and torches.

But he stayed too long in the intensity of the sun, and the warmth became an unbearable heat that roared through him like an inferno. Then he was falling, burning and falling, toward the white-veined surface of the sea, where the water was as cold and hard as marble.

He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out; his throat was frozen, his hands clutching at emptiness—

“You should lay off the whiskey.” Duffie's voice sounded through the terror. “It makes you sleep badly.”

Reeling in his emotions, Ian shuddered, then rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed. He glowered at the brightness of the early sun streaming through the window, long yellow bars of light aimed at his face.

“Why do I always dream of flying?” he muttered, shoving himself out of bed.

While Ian bent over the wash basin and started to shave, Duffie busied himself with coffee and brioches at the side board and spoke over his shoulder. “Because you fear heights.”

“I'd be lost without your wisdom.” He angled his razor across his jaw.

“
She
doesna fear heights. She knows all about flying. Just the other day she explained how to use coal gas to fill an aerial balloon. It could work, you know.”

Ian didn't have to ask who
she
was. “Flying balloons,” he muttered in disgust, shaking soap from the razor blade. “It's not natural.” Scowling, he applied the blade to his chin.

“Miranda says that with coal gas, decent winds and judicious ballasting, a balloon could cross the Channel in less than two hours.” Duffie took a sip of coffee and dabbed a napkin at his neat beard. “By the by, she wants to see you this morning.”

The razor blade nicked into his chin. Ian drew back, and the blade cut his finger. Cursing, he snatched up a towel. “Why didn't you say so?”

“I just did.” Duffie placidly regarded the blood dripping from Ian's finger and chin. “Lovely, my lad. Just lovely.”

Within moments Ian was dressed, his appearance somewhat diminished by the presence of bits of cloth pressed to his chin and finger. With the exception of his tartan waistcoat, he wore his usual black.

“Excellent choice, laddie.” Duffie eyed the cut of Ian's frock coat. “That's the one that makes the ladies go ‘ooh!'”

“I don't give a damn about making the ladies go ‘ooh!'”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you—”

Ian glared him into silence. They traveled unfashionably on horseback, because Ian was in a hurry. He told himself he felt a sense of urgency because Miranda had remembered more. But in his heart he knew it was because she affected him as no other person ever had. She brought a rare sense of peace to his soul. She made him dare to believe that there could be something more to life than struggle.

“It makes a man stupid, Duffie, and no mistake.”

“What makes a man stupid?”

“This marriage thing.”

Duffie chuckled. “Love, you mean.”

Ian gave a derisive snort. “Old fool. I'm just not used to being responsible for another person.”

“You care about her.”

“I care about doing my job.” From time to time, he admitted to himself, he and Miranda came perilously close to the intimacy he both craved and feared, but one or the other—usually Ian—always drew back, recoiling from something new and uniquely threatening. “She's beginning to remember. I believe Miranda was not in league with the traitors, but was their victim.”

Duffie nodded. “I knew it all along.”

“Thank you for speaking up sooner.”

“You wouldna hae believed me sooner. Now. What has she told you about her abductors?”

“She can't remember who they are, what they look like, what they wanted, or where they took her.”

“A marvelous start,” Duffie said wryly.

Ian felt as if he were up against a stone wall. But patience and kindness had drawn the first memories from her. Perhaps during the night she had recalled something. Perhaps that was why she had summoned him.

Dread thudded in his gut. Perhaps today was the day Miranda remembered she had never known a man named Ian MacVane.

A footman led them into a drawing room grandly decked in radiant gold and white. Fanny had never been one to employ subtlety. Miranda waited alone, sitting stiff-backed upon a gold brocade chaise. The strong sunlight of the summer morning streamed over her, giving her a winsome glow that took his breath away. Her hair was an abundant cloud of curls; her grave face resembled that of an angel.

She looked dainty and refined, wearing a high-waisted, pale green dress and little green slippers. Macbeth, whose mission in life seemed to be to sleep with his muzzle between his front paws, dozed at her feet.

“Good morning.” Ian greeted her with a bow.

“Sit down,” she said, not even cracking a smile.

“What is it?” His soul recoiled from the look of accusation in her eyes.

“Last night, a man tried to kill me,” she said, her voice weary and low with an unhealthy rasp. “Was it you, MacVane?”

Panic and fury flamed through him. “Tried to—” He plunged himself down beside her and grabbed her shoulders. She flinched, but he made no apology for his roughness. “Damn it, woman, why didn't you send for me?”

“I did.”

“Last night, I mean. Right after you—right after it happened.”

“I did,” she said again, pulling out of his grasp. “I was told you were out.”

Ian clenched his jaw. Out. The tavern. The whiskey. He had not been there when Miranda had needed him. Just as he had not been there for his mother so long ago. But this time he had no excuse. He was no sniveling boy, but a man—one who should know better than to lower his guard.

“Lucas came. He stayed nearby the entire night.”

If Ian had not been so busy hating himself at the moment, he would have turned his venom on Lucas. “His Lordship does have some practical value, then. Miranda, what happened?”

“Someone entered my room through the balcony window. He tried to strangle me.” She bent and curled her fingers into the deerhound's shaggy hair. “Macbeth chased him off. He managed to bite him a time or two, I think.” She leaned forward, peering at Ian's face. “How did you get that cut on your chin?”

He flushed scarlet. “Shaving. Goddamn it, I cut myself shaving.” He made himself pause, draw a deep breath. Loud and furious protests would only make him look more guilty.

Miranda gave a small shudder. “Lady Frances informed Her Grace of Oldenburg this morning.”

Ian felt nauseated. “The grand duchess?”

“She's a friend, Ian.”

He wondered. Catherine Pavlovna adored games of intrigue. Could she be playing cat and mouse with Miranda? The Russians had suffered at Bonaparte's hands. If they believed Miranda to be in league with Napoleon, they would not balk at killing her.

“She's sending Cossack guards to patrol the house and grounds night and day,” Miranda added.

Cossack guards. A band of foreign horsemen armed with curved blades and nasty tempers. Ian thrust himself to his feet and started to pace. “Surely you can't believe it was I.”

She sent him a long, weary look. “I can't trust anyone. But I still think of Scotland, Ian. Do you?”

Her question knifed into him.
Every day
, his heart answered.
Every waking moment.
Appalled at his own sentimentality, he sped up his pacing.

“It must be someone who wants me to die before I regain my memory,” she said simply. “And it's rather odd, MacVane, that the first person I told my memories to was you.”

“Jesus.” He stopped pacing and glared at her. “You're not still saying—”

“She doesn't have to say.” Lucas strode into the room. In his morning suit of gray serge, he looked as immaculate as an altar boy. “The evidence speaks for itself.”

“What evidence?” Ian demanded, feeling his hackles rise.

Lucas reached inside his waistcoat and drew out a white silk cravat. “
This
is what she was strangled with. Miranda found it on the floor after the attacker escaped.”

The blood rushed out of Ian's face and seemed to pool in his gut. He snatched the fabric from Lucas and held it up. He didn't have to look at the white-on-white monogram, but he did anyway. “IDM.” The letters stood for Ian Dale MacVane.

He crumpled the cravat in his gloved hand and whirled to face Miranda. For a moment, he was too furious to speak. Too confused. He was used to being in control, to being the calculating one. The perfect spy. The master of disguise.

In the Peninsular Wars, he had led lightning raids, headed off ambushes, saved his regiment—all because he'd stayed one jump ahead of the enemy. Knowing the workings of an evil and violent mind was his specialty.

Obviously he was losing his touch.

The idea that someone had helped himself to one of his cravats, then had breached the citadel of Frances's residence and almost choked the life out of Miranda, was too much to bear. So was hearing Miranda accuse him.

“Surely you know this idea is ridiculous.” He was surprised—and not displeased—to hear a cold, calm edge in his voice.

“I know nothing of the sort.” Her hand went to her throat.

That was when he saw the bruises. The reality of what had happened barreled into him, searing his soul with rage. Someone had tried to kill her. Had almost succeeded.

Without taking his eyes off Miranda, off the purpling bruises on her swan-white throat, he called, “Duffie!”

McDuff came in. “Aye?”

“Fetch my things. I am coming to stay at Biddle House.”

“Verra good, sir!”

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” Lucas said. His voice rang with steely contempt and the high-cultured accents of Eton and Oxford. “I'm staying, so we have no need of you. Someone must protect Miranda. Someone she trusts.”

“The dog I gave her is more trustworthy than that sly French maid of yours.” Ian still held Miranda in his gaze and wondered how he could have ever let her out of it. “Don't start fussing and fuming at me, Lisle. I've more of a right to protect her than you.”

“Only because you forced her to marry you under false pretenses.”

Miranda blinked once, slowly. Her face showed no expression, yet Ian sensed a storm brewing inside her. She was being pushed to the breaking point. Perhaps even now, memories were flooding into her. He couldn't worry about that at the moment. He turned his attention to Lisle.

“There was no force involved.” He put his face close to Lucas's and poked a finger at his chest.

Lucas shoved him back. “English law doesn't recognize a handfast marriage.”

“Dinna push me, Lisle. You're the one who doesn't belong here.”

“You are no husband,” Lucas said. “Unless you've forced your way into her bed, as well—”

Ian's fist flew, connecting with Lucas's jaw. A sickening thud sounded.

To his credit, Lucas merely staggered a little. “Scottish scapegrace.”

“I should have finished you when I had the chance, on the dueling green—”

“Stop it!” Like a dreamer awakening, Miranda shot to her feet. “I won't let either of you stay if this is the way you're going to behave. I'd rather throw in my lot with the Cossacks.”

Ian turned to her, though his senses were on alert for a sneak attack by Lucas. “Someone doesna want you to remember the past,” he said. “It's up to me to find out who.”

She glared at him. “Nothing of the sort is up to you. Loss of memory is not the same as loss of wits, Ian.
I
shall decide how to cope with this.” She looked from Ian to Lucas and back again. “Perhaps one of the men in my life is a murderer.”

“Then you had better be certain you know which is which,” Ian said with a dangerous smile.

She tossed her head, looking magnificent. She grew stronger every day, and while some women would have been reduced to hysterics by the events of the previous night, Miranda seemed determined to confront them. The vulnerable waif he'd found huddled in Bedlam had grown into a formidable woman. She had faced danger and was refusing to let it destroy her. “You may both stay so long as you vow to live in peace,” she stated.