Miranda (8 page)

He turned away, brooding down at the vale of the river. He had deemed the handfast more humane, in the end, than actual marriage. A true marriage would be a sentence of shame for her, for it would require an act of Parliament to dissolve. The handfast held out the possibility of escape.

He had no doubt she would want to escape him one day.

“I mean you no dishonor, lass,” he said, turning back, sliding his arm around her waist. “'Tis just that we had agreed. We wanted to be together right away. Agnes has been urging me to come back for years. So it seemed reasonable to marry in the Scottish fashion.”

He expected an outburst of resentment. Instead she favored him with a smile so brilliant that it made him blink. “You are the dearest man, Ian MacVane.”

He nearly choked on an outraged laugh. “I? Dear? Call me pleasant if you must. I would even sit still for charming. But dear? Madam, please!”

She laughed. “I am in earnest. There is something irresistibly dear about a man who is so eager to wed that he would sail the seas and bend the very law of the land in order to be with her.”

Ian found himself in the awkward position of having to both hide a smile and stifle a curse. Duffie again. The statement reeked of Angus McDuff. He had been putting inconvenient notions into her head for days.

“That is exactly the case,” he forced himself to admit. “I cannot wait to marry you.” The hot discomfort in his body added conviction to his statement. He was startled to realize it was not wholly a lie.

How could this be happening to him? In general he disliked the English, despite the fact that he had found notoriety and fortune in their society. He particularly disliked the women and should hold
this
particular woman in high disdain. Yet he didn't. She might be party to an assassination plot, but at the moment she looked the very flower of virtue.

She stood with her hands at her sides, the breeze plucking curls from beneath the kerchief she wore over her head. “May I speak frankly with you, Ian?”

“Aye, of course.”
Tell me everything, Miranda. Everything you know, and then I can set you free.

Her slim fingers toyed with the folds of her dress. “I can believe that all is just as you've told me—the way we met, my circumstances, my past. You've described it so vividly that sometimes I think I
do
remember.”

His heart seemed to lift in his chest. What a wonder, to think that he could pretend that the past was golden, that he had loved and had been worthy of her love. “Go on.”

“There is one matter that still confuses me. I want to remember loving you, but I do not.” She lifted a hand to her mouth, and he was horrified to see that she was on the verge of tears. “What sort of creature am I? Why can't I remember that?”

Ian took her in his arms. “I can't explain it to you, Miranda, for I don't understand it myself.” He smoothed a hand down her back, pressing her against him. He forced out the lie. “My own memories are vivid enough for both of us. We have set each other on fire, Miranda,
mo chridh
. I used to...” He bent his head and nipped at her ear, then whispered a wicked suggestion to her.

She caught her breath with a high-pitched gasp. “You didn't!”

“Aye, Miranda. I did.
We
did.”

Her cheeks flamed, and her velvety brown eyes shone, but not with tears, not now. “And did I—did I let you?”

“You not only let me, but you liked it. And—” This time he bent to her other ear, curling his tongue inside it and whispering a description of a trick he had learned at a brothel in Naples, long ago.

She jumped back with a little scream. “You are too shocking to live, Ian MacVane.” Before he could reply, she hurled herself back into his arms. “And when can we do it again?”

“Would this very moment suit you?” He wondered if he was going too far into this make-believe world. But he could not stop himself.

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

He tumbled back on the soft summer grass, taking her weight on top of him and, just for a moment, feeling a pure unearned joy. He slid his hands beneath her loose white blouse, filling his palms with smooth warm flesh, filling his mind with naught but pure lust.

“Wench,” he said, half dazed by the heat racing through him. “You have no shame.”

“Did I ever?”

“None at all.” Under her chemise, his thumbs brushed the tips of her breasts.

Her eyes drifted halfway shut. “I'm glad I was a sensible sort.” She shifted, and he could tell by the expression on her face that she felt his hardness.

He smiled wickedly. “You're a tempting woman, Miranda Stonecypher. You should be properly shocked.”

“I don't believe I'm properly anything.” She shifted again and laughed softly at his pained expression. “Mr. MacVane, I think a hasty marriage is a very good idea indeed.”

She leaned down and pressed her mouth to his, and her lips parted. There was no reason he could not take her right here, right now. His every instinct urged him to do so.

“Ah, Ian, Ian, did you tell me the truth before, when you swore we had never made love?” she begged to know, her mouth dragging down his throat, her hands clinging to his straining shoulders. “Did we ever join our bodies?”

Summoning all his restraint, he forced himself to put her aside. The heat in his loins was driving him mad, but he managed a crooked smile. “Miranda, my sweet, what I said before is true. If I had joined my body with yours, I promise you wouldna forget it.”

Seven

Needles and pins, needles and pins,
When a man marries his trouble begins.

—Anonymous, Nursery Rhyme

M
iranda had done the impossible, Ian realized. She had made him see Scotland in a new way. The land was no longer the dark, forbidding place of nightmares he had envisioned for so many years, but a country of such wild beauty it took his breath away.

He had managed to forget that—until Miranda had reminded him.

Early the next morning he struck out for the manor house, taking the worn cow path along the ridge of Ben Innes. A dark sense of satisfaction streamed through him. Callum had heard that Adder had been obliged to sell the place; presumably the Sassenach had fallen on hard times.

Though the house and gardens had been neglected, an air of majesty still hung about the place. Wildflowers and roses gone awry flourished around the gateways and along the paths to the terrace.

Ian turned and looked out over the valley and beyond the cliffs to the sea. A frigate, looking as small as a toy and flying the Union Jack, pushed into the harbor.

What a thing it must have been, to be the laird. To stand in this spot and to know he was master of all he surveyed.

The old dream tugged at him like the persistent ache of an unhealed battle wound. How could he dare to hope to live here one day, in the place that was as much a part of him as his eyes or his hands?

To remind himself of the futility of dreaming, he looked down, studied his maimed hand as it gripped the stone wall at the edge of the terrace garden. He still felt his finger, a phantom digit, as if it were still there. Unlike Miranda, he had no trouble remembering, in vivid detail, every moment of his past.

“Hold it steady, there's a lad.” The voice belonged to Smudge, the sweep's idiot nephew. The size of a small bullock, he was like a giant child, with the strength of two men. When the sweep told him to separate the pieces of a broken chimney pot that had been soldered by burnt creosote to the brick, he set himself diligently to the task, with Ian in assistance.

They positioned themselves beside the pot on the roof, with Ian holding back a sheet of beaten metal while Smudge raised a shovel high. The reek of old soot and creosote seared his nostrils.

“Wait, Smudge,” Ian said. “You'll have my arm off with that shovel if—”

He leaped back, but not in time. The blade of the shovel came down and caught his hand. The pain shot like a hot lance up his arm. He sank onto the flat rooftop and stared at the blood pulsing out, spreading in a wide red pool onto the black tar. His severed finger lay on the flat rooftop. The world spun in crazy circles.

“Sorry about your finger, ducks,” said Smudge.

The raucous caw of a crow startled Ian.

“Jesus.” He had broken out in a sweat. Dizzy, he looked away from his hand on the wall and made himself take deep, cleansing breaths of the morning air as he ran back down the mountain to the village.

Childish shouts rose up, and children ran by in a herd, chasing a hoop. Robbie was among them, and Ian paused to watch.

Aye, it had been a good plan to bring the laddie here. No more flash houses for that one, no nightmare of service as a climbing boy. Robbie would stay here, growing braw and red-cheeked in the Highland air.

“You blethering little Sassenach snot!” The taunt pierced Ian's thoughts.

The Scobie twins advanced on Robbie, who turned to run for his life, stumbled and fell into a puddle. The twins, hale as their wheelwright papa, leaped upon him, fists flying. Robbie howled with outrage.

Ian started toward them to break up the fight, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw his mother rush out of the garden gate in front of Agnes's house. She was like an avenging angel, her robes flying and her hair loose. Heedless of the mud, she plucked the Scobie twins off Robbie and gathered the lad in her arms. The village children backed off, some of them making a hex sign with their fingers in superstition.

Ian stood amazed. He approached cautiously, praying she wouldn't hurt the lad. By the time he reached them, Mary was hugging Robbie close, and he was sobbing into her ample breast.

“He's only a wee laddie,” she said to the twins. “Just a wee lad. He canna fight the likes of you.”

She glanced up, spying Ian. He stared at his mother and she stared back, her face mottled but curiously regal as she rested her chin on the top of Robbie's head. For a moment, the fog of madness and the estrangement of years fell away.

Ian's stomach clenched. He waited for her to rage at him, to curse him, to accuse him of failing her, but she simply said, “He's just a wee lad. He canna fight the lot of them.”

Calm as anyone's favorite grandmother, she straightened up and took Robbie into the house with her.

Ian stood there, incredulous. Then he felt it—a smile began in his heart and unfurled on his lips. “All this before breakfast,” he muttered. Then his grin disappeared as he remembered that today was only the beginning.

Today was his wedding day.

* * *

Since arriving in Scotland, Miranda had developed an excellent understanding of male pride. Ian was supremely confident of his gifts as a great lover. She tried very hard to grow annoyed at him.

Instead she found herself intrigued. More than that. Warm and slightly breathless each time he came near. Shamelessly eager to touch him, to be touched by him.

While the villagers constructed a bonfire of celebration to be lit that evening, she watched the activity. Before the night was out, she would be married to Ian MacVane.

“You're staring.” Coming up behind her, Ian whispered the words into her ear, raising shivers along her spine. “You're staring and you're frowning. 'Tis a bad portent.”

Even the mere whisper of his breath affected her. All of her flesh began to tingle. He ignited an undeniable power inside her, a force strong enough to burn past her will, past good sense, past all her reservations. She wanted him, and her body told her so frankly, without shame.

“I'm thinking,” she explained.

“Is it something you've remembered?” His voice was taut with strain.

She shook her head. “I'm wondering about what will take place here tonight. Becoming a married lady is a pivotal event. Surely it warrants a moment of silence.” She turned to face him and nearly swayed back into the pile of firewood.

“Oh, Lord.” Her gaze raked him from the top of his glengarry to the tips of his leather shoes.

He planted himself squarely before her. “What's wrong, lass? I thought you'd be pleased to find me dressed early for the wedding. Duffie would have it no other way.”

“Wrong?” The word came out in a breathless rush. “What is
wrong
, Ian MacVane, is that you have done the unforgivable.”

His shadowy eyes narrowed. “And what is that?”

“There are many things I cannot remember, but I do know there is one cardinal rule in weddings. The groom must never outshine the bride.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Outshine? Love, I have no idea what you—”

“Do not deny it.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You should have warned me that you look that way in a kilt.”

He spread his arms, all innocence. “What way?”

“Like...Rob Roy. Like a hero out of a fireside tale.” She glared at the badger sporran covering his groin. The lifeless eyes of the badger mocked her. “Did no one ever teach you that it's vulgar to flaunt one's physique.”

He let loose with a howl of unrepentant laughter. “It wasna part of my boyhood training, I assure you.”

He had washed his hair, and beneath the woolen cap it flashed blue black in the sunlight. The snowy shirt billowed out at the sleeves, broadening his shoulders. The shirt and leather waistcoat were parted at the throat to display an enticing expanse of sun-browned chest and throat. The kilt was woven of a plaid she recognized as the MacVane tartan, bright red shot through with black and sea green. The hem brushed his long, powerful legs, the movement drawing the eye, teasing the passions.

But Ian's appeal was made of more than the dashing Highland costume. His customary look of weary disdain was gone, replaced by a barely veiled hunger when he studied her lips, her throat, her bosom. Without speaking, without touching her, he was letting her know he wanted her, and Miranda found it appallingly thrilling.

“Even so,” she said at last, “you have dragged my vanity in the dirt.” She clasped her hands in front of her, pressing them against the heat in her belly. “I should thank you, I suppose. For you've reminded me that I do possess a sense of vanity. I wasn't sure until now.”

He took her hands and pried them apart, cradling them in his. He exhaled a long, slow breath. “Let me see if I have the right of this. You're fashed with me because I dressed my best for our wedding.”

“You make me sound petty and silly,” she said. “It's just one more way you outshine me, Ian. You've had me at a disadvantage from the start. You, not me, have been the keeper of my past. All I know, I know from your lips.”

He gripped her hands in his. “Lass, I'm sorry.”

She saw guilt in his eyes. “I'm not certain what you're apologizing for, Ian.”

He looked past her, to the village green where the men were building the bonfire. “For...knowing things that you don't, lass. For not being able to help you remember.”

The sweetness of his words humbled her. “I
am
petty, aren't I? The way I look shouldn't matter to me, but it does, and there are you. It matters.”

His eyes shone, and his lips pressed together as if he were keeping in more laughter. God help him, if he laughed at her again, she would march to London and never look back.

But he didn't laugh. He touched her hands with that rare tenderness he sometimes showed when he wasn't keeping himself under rigid control. Gently his knuckles grazed her fingertips.

“Tell me, how was I to know?” he asked quietly.

She cocked her head. “To know what?”

“That I—with my blouse flapping and my great, hairy legs exposed for all the world to see—could possibly outshine you? God's light, lass, you look as fresh and lovely as moon on the moors, a far comelier sight than myself in a moldering old costume first made for my great-grandsire.”

She searched his face for a trace of insincerity and found none. “Was your great-grandsire a gentleman, then?”

“He was a MacVane. He lost most of what he had in the clan wars, and then the English took the rest.” He cleared his throat as if to banish the bitterness from his tone. “Almost all. He did leave me a fine kilt and sporran. Though I doubt he meant for it to annoy my future wife.”

She smiled before she remembered she was angry with him. Then she realized her anger had fled, insubstantial as morning mist on the loch. “I don't feel you're mocking me. It's just that when I saw you dressed this way, it occurred to me that you could have any woman you choose. A great beauty. A famous lady. A noblewoman or a notorious wit.”

“How do you know you aren't all of those, Miranda? Perhaps you are, and I've simply neglected to tell you.”

Despite his teasing tone, the words hit her hard. Who was she? Did she even deserve this man?

Before she could make herself ask him, he called over his shoulder, “Agnes, can you help?”

The older woman bustled out and snatched Miranda from Ian's grip. “Agnes,” he said, “Miranda needs your help in getting ready for the—”

Waving her hand, Agnes shooed him silent. “Weesht now, I have eyes to see, Ian MacVane!” She stopped in the dooryard amid the chickens poking at seeds on the ground and raked him from head to foot with her gaze. “Vain male baggage,” she muttered, then steered Miranda inside.

* * *

Ian MacVane had played many roles in his life, but bridegroom was a new one for him. And one, he decided, for which he was grossly ill-suited. Moments before he was to appear on the steps of the kirk, he hesitated in the keeping room of Agnes's house.

He was about to promise Miranda Stonecypher a year of his life. And if, God forbid, she were to conceive a child, the year could stretch out to forever.

How did a man pretend all his dreams were coming true when his life was a waking nightmare?

How did he pretend to be in love with a woman when all he wanted from her was her secrets?

And how, by all that was holy, could he make love to Miranda, steal her innocence and her honor, and expect to live with himself after?

The questions consumed him, even when a rider rushed in with a hastily scrawled message in semaphore cipher. “Abel Jack from Kirkcaldy said you'd give me a half crown for this,” the rider stated.

Ian paid him without comment and dismissed him with a nod of his head. He unfolded the message and held it in the light from the small window. The letter was dated the day before, so he knew right away the semaphore towers, signaling news from one end of England to the other, were in place and functioning.