Miranda (19 page)

Miranda heard a thud and a faint moan from her father. Anger rose up like a fountain of fire inside her. How many times would they try to pry the formula out of him?

How long before he died to protect her?

Yes, her. The design was her doing. Her invention, not Gideon's. She had guarded his secret because she loved him. She wanted him to have the prestige he craved.

But now her noble gesture was a threat to her father.

Miranda had come a long way from the frightened, confused creature in the midst of a warehouse fire. She had learned to confront danger squarely and unflinchingly. To embrace each moment, to live inside it, to come out whole on the other side of peril.

Fear knocked at her rib cage as she crept toward the door of the tower house. It was a strengthening fear. One that made her swifter. Smarter. Stronger.

She would find a way to rescue her father. At the moment, her only weapon was the element of surprise. But memories were returning quickly to her. She recalled another entrance to the tower house, a low door in the back.

She hesitated. The voices inside the house had fallen silent. It was too quiet, almost as if—

Too late, she heard the rustling footsteps and harsh breath of the approaching man. Like a steel talon, a hand closed around her wrist. “I've been hoping you would pay us a visit,” the foreigner said.

Miranda screamed as he dragged her into the house, but the scream died when she saw her father.

Gideon was slumped in a chair.

Miranda ran to him.

“No,” Gideon moaned. “Ah, Mindy, no.”

She forced herself to look at their captor—narrow face, dark hair, smirking mouth, deceptively slim build. A tall man, he was wearing black gloves worn through at the knuckles. “You're wasting your time,” she told him. “He does not know the formula.”

“How appropriate.” The man's voice was surprisingly melodious, as if he were at a social gathering. “The inventor of the Stonecypher missile does not know the formula.”

“On the contrary, she does,” Miranda countered.

He lifted an eyebrow over a hard, assessing brown eye. “She. You mean you.”

Gideon muttered, “She knows nothing. Nothing.”

She fought a wave of forgetfulness. That was the phrase he had used to make her forget in the first place, and just hearing the words made her want to fall into a comfortable oblivion. Instead she said, “I know exactly what you're looking for. And I'm prepared to give it to you. But first, you must meet
my
demands.”

With a graceful swoop of his lithe body, the man moved behind Gideon. He plunged his hand into Gideon's abundant white hair and pulled his head back, baring his neck.

A razor-sharp knife touched her father's neck.

“Your demands?” the man asked. “I'm sorry, my dear. Perhaps I didn't hear you correctly.”

Fifteen

I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn.

—Thomas Hood,
I Remember, I Remember

A
scream built in her throat. She ground her teeth together to keep the sound in. She prayed her terror was not etched on her face and remembered one of the most important lessons Ian had taught her:
Never show that you're afraid.

The thin man seemed to expect her to know him. She must have known him in the past, possibly when she, too, was his prisoner.

“Miranda, get away, now!” Gideon said through chattering teeth. “Duchesne won't spare me no matter what you tell hi—”

The man called Duchesne backhanded Gideon across the mouth. Her father spat blood and slumped forward, coughing. It took all of her strength not to go to him, not to give vent to the scream clawing at her throat.

And inside her, something extraordinary was happening. Hate and fear and rage built like a volcano about to erupt. She did not remember this man, this Duchesne, but she remembered the hatred he inspired in her.

Use it, Miranda. Don't let the anger use you.

“When you stop tormenting a helpless man and start acting like an adult,” she said, “I might be ready to talk to you.” Her voice was as hard as coins dropped into an icy well.

Duchesne looked startled. Even Gideon blinked in surprise, seeming to forget the blood dripping from his mouth onto his shirt. Apparently the old Miranda had lacked the gift of cold command.

Duchesne's puzzlement lasted only seconds. “Let us see if we understand each other. You claim you have what I want. I have what you want.” He glanced down at the knife at Gideon's throat. “Your father's life. So do we have a trade?”

“Absolutely.” She still had utterly no idea what the formula was. Yet. She went to the table. When she looked down, years-old memories seized her.

I've met a most interesting man, poppet. He is an expert at ciphers and signaling. Monsieur Duchesne, lately arrived from Switzerland...

So that was how Duchesne had insinuated himself into their lives. Perhaps he had, at one time, been the scholar he claimed to be and only recently had turned to the politics of empire.

Her hand was steady as she reached for a quill, dipped it in thick black ink and began scribbling on a broad sheet of foolscap.

“Here you are,” she said over her shoulder. “This is how you calculate the trajectory of a rocket.” Her hand worked independently, as if her fingers, not her brain, held the knowledge. Before her eyes appeared long strings of equations, elegant and sophisticated, and she was astounded to realize they were products of her own mind. Oh, Lord, could she think her way out of this?

The figures on the page looked crisp and neat. “This
is
what you wanted, is it not?” she murmured.

“What mischief are you about?” Duchesne edged away from Gideon to peer over Miranda's shoulder.

The back of her neck tingled like the kiss of heat lightning. She watched her hand reach down as if to dip the quill. In one swift movement, she grabbed the inkpot and spun around, flinging the ink in his face, across his eyes.

The thick, midnight liquid blinded him. He stumbled and fell forward. He swore in French and flailed his arms, the knife catching in the fabric of her cloak.

She snatched up a stool and brought it down on his head, wincing when the wood splintered. He reached out, groping the air with his stained hands. The stool had barely slowed him. Damn! The Punch shows in Hyde Park made it look so easy to knock someone silly with a stick of wood.

Papa, can we stay? Can we stay and see the puppets?
A memory flashed, his tall boots and her grubby hand clinging to his.

Ah, Mindy. I've not even ha'pence for admittance.

Are we poor, then, Papa?

Sometimes I think we are.

I'll take care of you, Papa. We'll not be poor when I'm big enough to take care of you.

Rage and fear came back, stirring up the well of strength and conviction inside her. With the cold-blooded aim of a soldier, she brought the leg of the stool down on his arm, hearing a dull snap as both wood and bone broke.

Duchesne screamed. The knife skittered across the floor, and Gideon stopped it with his foot. The foreigner lunged for her, roaring like a mad animal, and she jumped back. She could hear Gideon sawing at the ropes that bound him.

A moment later her father stumbled toward the door. “The key,” he said, gasping.

Miranda remembered. Both she and her father were constantly misplacing their latchkeys. They always kept one over the lintel. She raced ahead of him, retrieved the key from the dusty shelf above the door and pushed Gideon out into the night.

Duchesne stumbled toward them, still blinded and groping wildly. She slammed the door in his ink-blackened face and pulled on the handle with all her might while she twisted the key. Then, even as the sound of breaking glass shattered the night, she grabbed her father by the hand.

“Can you run?” she asked.

“Yes, by God, at least for a while.”

A glance over her shoulder confirmed her fears. Duchesne had hurled the stool through the window and was climbing out. He moved clumsily, favoring his injured arm.

“I have a gig waiting in the woods,” she said to her father. “Can you make it?”

“Aye.” He walked with a limp. “Dear God, Miranda, I've never seen you like that. You were quite amazing. A Valkyrie. An Amazon! What's come over you?”

“You have no idea,” she said between her chattering teeth. She pulled him up the dark slope toward the woods, praying they could outrun Duchesne. The forest was black; she could not see the branches that scratched her face and tore at her dress.

Moments later, she found the spot where she had left the driver. Empty. Ian's favorite word slipped out of her mouth.

“My, my,” Gideon said. “I never realized you knew any curses but those in ancient Greek. What is the matter?”

Panic built in her chest. “Now we have no way to—” She broke off. There was a rustle somewhere in the underbrush.

Duchesne. He must be gaining on them.

She could not see her father, but she did not have to in order to know that he was too weak, too badly injured, to go farther. She would have to stand and fight. At least Duchesne had a broken arm.

He also had a dagger and a good, strong arm. And a cold-blooded mission.

The rustling grew louder. Then, even before she could scream, a shadow detached itself from the blackness and leaped. Miranda drew in a breath to scream.

A gloved hand clamped over her mouth.

* * *

Ian felt her soft, struggling body beneath him, and in the dark he gave a wolfish grin. What a sick mind he had, to think of bedding Miranda when they were out in the wilderness with God knew who after them.

“Steady now, lass,” he whispered into her ear. “It's only me. It's Ian.”

She fell still. He imagined a sweet smile of relief on her face, a word of gratitude on her lips. He lifted his hand from her mouth and his weight from her body.

“You bloody jackanapes,” she said in a harsh whisper, hitting out at him, catching him on the chest. “You scared the last of my wits out of me!”

“I rather like you witless.”

She made a sound of disgust. “I so admire your coolness while in peril. Father? Are you all right, Papa?”

“He is fine.” Lucas's flat, aristocratic voice whispered across the clearing.

“Never better,” said the weary voice of an older man.

Ian froze. The father. Would he be able to identify Lucas? Would Gideon Stonecypher point the finger of accusation at Ian and declare him an imposter?

He groped in the dark to help Miranda to her feet. She pulled away and staggered up.

A crashing sounded, an angry noise, like that made by a wounded stag or a wild boar. Ian saw a shadow in the dense trees, moving swiftly. The blood hummed in his veins, and his senses tingled with alertness.

There was an edge to mortal danger that sometimes felt oddly like pleasure.

He had already decided not to kill the assailant, for he would need to extract information from him.

He warned Lucas in a low whisper. “Don't shoot—”

There was a swift white flash followed by a thud and a groan. The stink of sulfur fogged the night air.

“Trigger-happy, aren't we?” Ian muttered. The brief illumination showed a cloaked figure fleeing on horseback. “So much for questioning that one.”

“Perhaps he won't get far,” Miranda said. “He's got a broken arm, and I threw ink in his face.” She sounded slightly dazed, yet more sure of herself than he had ever known her to be.

“His name is Duchesne,” Gideon said. “Pierpont Duchesne.”

“The shot didn't even faze him,” Lucas said, sounding amazed.

Ian glowered in the dark. “You have much to learn about subtlety, my lord.”

* * *

For Gideon's sake, they stopped at an inn for the night. Ian, who rarely went anywhere without a purse full of gold crowns, bought the best rooms in the house. Dressed in a long woolsey nightgown borrowed from the innkeeper, Gideon sat up in the bed, sipping mutton broth and looking bewildered.

“You lost your memory?” he asked Miranda.

She nodded. “That is the only way I know how to describe what happened. A few weeks ago, I found myself in an exploding warehouse along the Thames, and I had no idea who I was.” She fished in her bodice, drew out the oval pendant. “The name ‘Miranda' is engraved here. If not for that, I would not even have known my name.”

“Then it worked!” Gideon said.

“What worked?”

“The mesmerism. It is more than a parlor trick. I was able to convince you to forget what you knew. Amazing.”

“And do you know how to bring the memories back?” she asked.

He shook his head despondently. “Anton Mesmer was not a very good natural philosopher.”

“What was it that I knew, Papa? What did you want me to forget?”

“You overheard them talking of their plan. They are in league with Bonaparte.”

“Did you hear it, too?” Ian asked, tensing.

“They spoke in French.” Gideon stared at Miranda. “Her French is fluent, and mine is not.”

Ian watched the two of them, and his heart felt oddly small and tight. They were father and daughter. They should love each other. Instead she regarded Gideon as a polite stranger, and he looked back at her with the brightness of tears trembling in his eyes.

Lucas sat stiffly on a stool beside the bed. He'd had little to say. Ian guessed that he was still furious with himself for letting Duchesne escape.

Until Miranda remembered everything, they would never know Duchesne's role in recent events or even who his master was.

“They did not call each other by name,” Gideon said. “Duchesne is the only one known to me. But...” He frowned, thinking hard.

“Any detail,” Ian urged him. “The least matter could be important.”

“One of them was known by a French moniker. Le Couleur. No, that's not right.” Gideon set his jaw in concentration. “La Couleuvre.”

The words seared into Ian like a heated brand. He moved not a muscle, but his gaze locked with Miranda's.

“La Couleuvre,” she repeated, correcting Gideon's pronunciation. “The adder.”

“Is that significant?” asked Lucas.

Red flashes of rage detonated in Ian's head, pounding at his temples. The adder. Mr. Adder. It was probably only coincidental, but it caused fifteen-year-old wounds to reopen, to throb anew. After a long silence he said, “We'll know more when we return to London.”

Gideon nodded distractedly. He kept staring at Miranda. “You are the same, yet different.”

“What do you mean, Papa?”

“You used to hold yourself aloof, living more in your mind than in the world. Now there's something about you—a freshness, a vitality. You've changed so much. Tell me everything. All that's befallen you.”

In a quiet voice, Miranda told her father what had happened. Or rather, she told him the least disturbing version of what had happened. She left out the nightmare of Bedlam, the sea voyage to Scotland, the handfast marriage.

Clever girl. Ian knew then exactly what was coming, and he braced himself. Miranda was going to ask her father which man, Lucas or Ian, had been the one she loved.

He heard a snapping sound and looked down. The stoneware mug of ale he had been holding was broken. The pressure of his hand had crushed it. He glanced up, saw the three of them staring at him.

“Clumsy of me,” he muttered, bending to pick up the pieces. “I'll just take these to the dustbin—”

“In a moment.” Miranda spoke quietly, but with conviction. “I want you—” she looked at Lucas “—both of you present for this.”