Miranda (9 page)

There was something quite amazing about the new system of communication. Men stood vigil atop lofty towers, squinting at other distant towers, waiting for a signal. In a matter of moments the signaling was done, the man put aside his lever-driven flags, and then stood to await yet another message.

Fog and darkness often interrupted transmissions, but when the system worked, its speed boggled the mind. Here in Scotland, he held in his hands a thought that had been formed in London only a day before.

It was a very angry thought. Tersely stated, as were all semaphore messages.

Return to me immediately.

He wadded up the paper and tossed it onto the crumbling peat logs in the grate. So Frances was not happy with his change of plans, the meddlesome harpy. She had told him to put himself on intimate terms with Miranda. To make love to her, to learn her secrets.

Fanny didn't understand his need to protect Miranda when she was in this lost, memoryless state. To salvage her honor by marrying her. Hell, he didn't even understand it himself. But Fanny should know better than to interfere. He had always done his job, and done it well.

“Cor, sir, you look right silly in them skirts!”

Ian turned away from the hearth to see Robbie watching him with a mixture of disgust and merriment. The lad was flourishing like springtime itself, and Ian was surprised to feel a rush of pride. Robbie's cheeks were bright red and growing rounder on Agnes's good brown bread and apricots from the orchard, trout from the streams and lakes. His London pallor was gone, thanks to the fine, robust quality of the Highland air. He wore the puffy bruise beneath his right eye like a medal of honor.

“Sir,” Ian said with mock severity, “I'll have you know these skirts you find so silly have been the garb of kings since time out of mind.”

Robbie dubiously studied Ian's bald knees. “Why?”

“I suppose,” Ian said, recalling Miranda's perusal earlier, “'tis because Scottish women like the view, and they makes the clothes.”

Robbie cocked his head skeptically. He walked in a slow circle around Ian, his young face solemn and thoughtful. “I suppose it could be useful if you have to piss in a hurry.”

Ian laughed and went to the door. “How is your bruise, lad?”

Robbie touched the bony rim under his eye. “Doesn't hurt at all. Mistress Mary chased off the Scobies quick as you please.”

“I saw.” Ian's throat ached.

“She was asking about you, Mistress Mary was.”

His heart thudded slowly, audibly, against the wall of his chest. “Asking—”

“About your London house and where you nicked all that money you're always sending her. I told her she should ask you.” Robbie grinned. “I wager she will.”

“Dinna wager too much.” He draped an arm around the boy. “Come, we've a wedding to attend.”

Just as they were about to leave the cottage, a faint rustle came from the rooms in the back. His mother. Did she have any notion of what was happening today? Did she know her only surviving son was about to take a wife? And if she did, would her hatred for him extend to Miranda?

Age-old pain twisted through him. No matter how much time had passed, he could never think of his mother without feeling the sad yearning.

His face felt carved in stone as he took the boy's hand and stepped out into the path toward the kirk. It took all of his control to hide his sorrow. And in the end he failed, for Robbie stopped and glanced back at the house. “'Twill be all right, sir. You'll see.”

Before Ian could stop him, Robbie broke away and ran off. At the same moment, Duffie and some of the local men swept Ian into their wake. Buoyed by copious pints of heather ale, they conveyed him to the kirk. Ribald comments salted the air, and Ian slipped uneasily into the role of bridegroom.

Attended by Agnes and the women of the town, Miranda waited on the steps.

Ian stopped in his tracks. He had sworn earlier that her beauty needed no artifices or enhancements, and that was true. Yet under Agnes's care, Miranda's loveliness had taken on an almost painful intensity.

She wore a crown of flowers, laurel and daisy and heather interwoven with her sleek, nut brown hair. She was draped in a gown of sheer, pale green. With her enormous eyes and soft mouth, she resembled a pagan wood nymph, savage and fey, impossible to hold yet equally impossible to relinquish.

A light breeze swept down from the heights, tearing a storm of petals from the berry bushes that surrounded the kirkyard. Miranda lifted her face to the swirling petals. God's light, she took his breath away. He felt a warmth somewhere in the region of his heart, and the sensation was so unfamiliar that he had nearly forgotten its name. Happiness.

This was not supposed to happen to him. He was not supposed to become smitten with Miranda Stonecypher. He was not supposed to look at her and see someone who could, if he let her, bring him joy and peace and all the things that most men were allowed to have.

“A blessing upon you!” shouted Hamish Dunn. He was the town blacksmith, but when disputes arose he served as magistrate, and at least twice a year he acted as kirk deacon. For as long as anyone could remember, Hamish had officiated at the births, deaths and marriages of Crough na Muir.

Ian reached the stone steps under the curving lintel of the village church. Stray petals settled on his shoulders and chest. He glanced down at Miranda and felt a jolt of panic. Only moments from now, she would be his wife.

“My friends,” Hamish said in his broad, deep burr, “we are gathered to hear the vows of fidelity of Ian MacVane and Miss Miranda Stonecypher. Do you both agree to abide by the custom of handfasting?”

“I do,” Miranda said softly.

Ian suspected that she had romanticized the notion of handfast. He did nothing to correct her, for it suited his purposes to let her think it fanciful and poetic. In sooth, it was sometimes a cold-blooded means to test a woman's fertility.

“Aye,” said Ian. He knew exactly what he was agreeing to. The clasping of hands, the speaking of vows, bound them in marriage for just one day over a year. Once their time was up, they could part or live together as they chose.

“And is there any among us who can name a reason this man and this woman should not be joined?” Hamish went on. “For if there be one—”

“Wait.”

Every person present turned toward the kirk gate. Hushed whispers flurried like petals through the air.

With a dawning sense of dread, Ian pivoted on his heel. He heard the sharp intake of Miranda's breath. His hand went to the handle of his dirk, but what he saw was no enemy who could be vanquished by a blade.

His mother. She wore her matted hair unbound, a shapeless dress dragging its hem in the grass and flowers of the kirkyard. The air of wildness and unpredictability hovered around her like a musky perfume. Her gaze was steely and magnetic, holding everyone silent as she made her way to the steps.

Ian braced himself for the storm of her rage. Once again, she would tell him how worthless he was. How he had failed to save her and his family. How he should have died with the rest of them.

But the fury never came, and when his initial shock had passed, he realized why. Robbie. The boy held her hand, escorting her proudly, with a broad grin on his face, as if she were his own dear mother.

The meddling little blighter. Ian had told him to stay away from Mary, that she could lash out and hurt him. But she hadn't. She'd let him bring her flowers every day. When she stopped in front of the kirk and let go of Robbie's hand, Ian saw the mother-love in her pale, lined face.

Then she looked up at Ian and Miranda, and her expression did not change. Did not shift to bitterness and animal fury.

“He brought me,” Mary said. “The little lad. He made me see things that were hiding inside my grief. Old, old things. Because, you ken, he's just a wee lad. Nae bigger than you were yourself, my Ian, when the bad men came to our croft.” Her hand, rough and papery dry, came up to caress Ian's cheek. “Bless you, lad,” she said. “Bless you and the lassie, too. Bless you.”

He lost control then and there. Ian MacVane, who had bullied and cheated his way to wealth and power, who had fought on the battlefields of Spain and sailed the high seas, who was known to all London as a man lacking sentiment or soul, gave way to searing tears of gratitude. Silently they crept down his face, and his mother wiped them away with her trembling hand.

The moment, punctuated only by Miranda's faint sobs, passed quickly. Mary MacVane handed Miranda a scrap of linen. “A handkerchief,” she explained. “My own dear mother made it for me. Part of my dowry, it was, but that's all that's left. The rest is ashes. Ashes.” She seemed to drift off then, to become vague and distant. She wobbled, as if the effort of walking to the kirk had sapped her strength.

Agnes gave a loud, sentimental snort and took Mary by the arm. “Come along, then, dear one. 'Tis a wearying thing, rejoining the world, but I always knew you would one day. You'll want a bit of a rest.”

Mary allowed Agnes and Robbie to lead her to a stone garden seat beneath a linden tree. And Ian, his soul on fire, pondered the terrible irony of it all. His mother had given him the gift of hope just at the moment he was about to commit his greatest deception.

He clasped Miranda by the hand and pledged to make her his wife.

Eight

There may, perhaps, in such a scene,
Some recollection be
Of days that have as happy been,
And you'll remember me.

—Alfred Bunn,
The Bohemian Girl,
III

W
hen the brief ceremony was over, the villagers clanged tankards and goblets together, raising toasts to the newlyweds. The men brought forth a set of pipes and a skin drum, and Hamish sawed out tune after tune on his fiddle. People danced reels and jigs or sometimes simply stood by and stamped the rhythm with their feet or clapped their hands.

Miranda, fresh and breathless from a wild reel, went in search of Ian. She found him standing off by himself, bathed in the wavering golden light of the bonfire.

“There you are, Mr. MacVane. 'Tis Mrs. MacVane here.” She felt merry and giddy, filled with anticipation. “I feel as if I've never truly lived until now. Because of you.”

A pained expression darkened his face. “Dinna say that, lass. Dinna make me responsible for your happiness.”

“But you are,” she said, unwilling to let his moodiness dim her cheer. He had been pensive ever since his mother had given her blessing at the wedding. “You've made me very happy, Ian. You've given me a life again. A goal. I am going to devote myself to you.”

“Ah, Miranda.” His smile was warm and weary all at once. “You're a stubborn woman, you are.”

“And have I always been?”

“Since the first moment I met you.” He lifted his horn cup and drank deeply. The piper skirled a loud salute. Gaelic yells filled the air.

Miranda peered at the shining faces in the crowd. Ian's people. Hers now. What a remarkable concept. The aching void inside her was filling slowly. She needed to belong. Perhaps here, amid these people who had welcomed her, was where her healing would begin. “What are they saying?” she asked Ian.

“You dinna want to know,” he said, his voice low with restrained laughter.

“I do,” she protested, watching Tam Alexander lift his cup and pantomime a rocking motion with his hips while his friends howled with laughter. “It has to do with me, doesn't it? With us?” At the very thought, all the heat in her body pooled in secret places, places that longed for his touch. “You can tell me, Ian.”

His strong arm snaked around her and drew her close. She felt the heat of him through his shirt and through the stout woolen tartan of his kilt. “Tell you?” He lifted an inquisitive eyebrow, then bent and nipped at the lobe of her ear. “And spoil the surprise?”

The promise in his voice and in his touch took her breath away. She wanted this man with a deep, piercing longing. It hardly mattered that she could not remember him, for the feelings that drummed in her chest were as old as time itself. She could almost believe she had known him in another lifetime, for one life span was hardly enough to love him the way she wanted.

To the delight of the laughing crowd, she wound her arms around his neck. “I love you, Ian MacVane,” she said. “I'm certain I do. Surely I always have.”

He muttered something in Gaelic, then kissed her long and hungrily. The hooting and stamping of the crowd rose to a crescendo.

“To bed,” shouted Tam Alexander. “To bed! Take her to bed, lest you spark another bonfire where you stand!”

“To bed! To bed!” people called, roaring with laughter.

Ian lifted his mouth from hers. “To bed?”

“They all appear to be demanding it.”

“And what do you demand, Miranda?”

He seemed to want to hear her say it, though she was certain her desire was written clearly on her face. “Take me to bed, Ian MacVane. Now.”

The villagers formed two lines leading to the cottage. They would have the cozy dwelling all to themselves; a night of privacy would be Agnes's gift to them. She and Robbie would stay with Mary in the adjacent quarters.

As Ian took Miranda's hand and led her up the path toward the rough plank door, the crowd and the noise seemed to fade away, and there was Ian, only Ian, towering over her, his every touch a tender promise.

Miranda knew she had read love poems in the past. She had viewed paintings and heard music that was supposed to express the depths of sensual desire. But none of them even came close to what she felt in that moment, just before he opened the door.

They stood at the threshold, she feeling overheated and sweetly needy, he cloaked in shadow and looking unbearably handsome. She heard someone yell at Ian to pick her up, to carry her over the threshold. He reached for her, swept her up into his arms in a towering, romantic gesture that left her dazed.

A chorus of
ooohs
and wistful sighs rose up from the villagers.

A distant pounding drummed on the road, unexpected. Uninvited. Unwelcome. Torches bobbed above the heads of a half-dozen riders. Past the crumbling wall, the riders poured in, boiling along the main road on galloping horses.

Forcing a curse past his gritted teeth, Ian set Miranda down on the path.

“What is happening?” she asked, trying not to raise her voice in frustration. She was not about to let her wedding night be spoiled. “Ian?”

“Damned if I know.”

The bonfire bathed the lead rider in gold. The bright hues of the flames matched his blond, Brutus-cut hair. He wore Hessians and tight riding breeches, a perfectly fitted waistcoat and frock coat. The men who rode behind him were as immaculately clad and humorless as soldiers on review.

Ian spat a curse. “Robbie, where are you, lad?”

The boy scurried from the direction of the banqueting tables. “Take Mistress Mary away,” Ian said. “Can you do that?”

Robbie's eyes rounded like saucers. “Are the soldiers here to hurt us, Ian?”

“Nay, lad, not this time, and they couldn't if they tried. But my mother won't understand. I dinna want to see her upset.”

Robbie nodded and hurried off. A moment later, Miranda saw him leading Mary MacVane off to her quarters.

Ian strode down the path and planted himself in the middle of the roadway. The men brought their horses up short, five of them falling back while the lead rider pushed forward and dismounted.

Feeling as if she had come awake halfway through a dream, Miranda walked toward the newcomers. The golden man fascinated her so.

Ian grabbed her arm. “Have a care,” he said through his teeth. “You don't know what they're about.”

Her head pounded with a peculiar throbbing that was familiar by now. The pain always preceded an episode of remembrance. “He won't hurt me,” she said.

Some of the villagers began to grumble. “There's naught but trouble for you here,” Hamish yelled.

“State your business and be gone,” said Tam Alexander.

“Miranda!” In two strides the golden man reached her. He took her in his arms and hauled her against him. He smelled, not unpleasantly, of sweat and horse. “Ah, Miranda, I've found you at last!”

She heard a hiss of fury from Ian and quickly pushed away from the man. “Sir, if you please!”

The Englishman was tall and broad, his arms and chest and shoulders hard with muscles. To her astonishment, tears gathered in his eyes.

He was a stranger. Yet he knew her name. She felt a chill, a sense of unreality, as if this were a dream about someone else.

With a small cry, she glanced back at Ian. She wanted to take shelter in his arms, but he wasn't offering his embrace. He was glaring at the newcomer.

“Who the devil are you?” he demanded.

“Miranda?” the man asked, ignoring the question. He was handsome in a balanced, classical way, his face composed of bold planes and angles all perfectly arranged, his hair long and wavy in the fashion of the day. He dabbed at his eyes with a clean handkerchief. “Miranda,” he went on, “I've been frantic with worry. I've searched for you—quite literally—over the length and breadth of England.” He smiled with genuine pleasure, his eyes still bright and moist. “You're looking well, sweet Miranda. Simply lovely.”

Ian swore and shouldered forward through the encroaching villagers. “If you've business with the lady, it can wait.”

Miranda swallowed but could barely speak past the lump of fear and confusion in her throat. “Ian, no. I must speak to him.” The pounding in her head increased. “Sir,” she said, her voice low and trembling. “Sir, forgive me, but I don't know who you are.”

One of his companions sidled over on his mount. The horse's breathing sounded loud in the tense, waiting silence. “Remember, my lord, what the black-haired wench from the hospital said. Memory lapses and all.”

Wench from the hospital. Gwen? Had they spoken to Gwen?

“She doesna want you here. Get out,” Ian ordered. His shadow loomed like a protective cloak over Miranda.

Determinedly, the fair-haired man disregarded him. “It can't be.” He looked at Miranda with an intensity and absorption that made her cheeks go hot. “Darling, you must remember me. I am Lucas Chesney.”

“Lucas.” She tested the word. It meant nothing to her.

He grasped her by the shoulders, his grip firm. “Lucas Chesney, Viscount Lisle. The man you love, Miranda.
Your betrothed.
”

With a growl of rage, Ian stepped in. “Get your bloody paws off the lady.”

The man's grip loosened. She stumbled back.

“Lucas Chesney,” Ian muttered as if the name meant something to him. “You'd do well to take yourself off, for you've come at a very bad time.”

The villagers tried to crowd in closer, but Chesney's men held them at bay with muskets angled low across their bodies.

Something hot and blinding flashed in Miranda's brain. She was reminded of the ordeal in the warehouse, when the explosions erupted all around her while she stood still, certain she was about to perish. The shock held her immobile, speechless. Lucas Chesney. Her betrothed.

But how in heaven could that be?

Ian advanced on the stranger. “The lady says she doesna know you. I'd say you came a long way for naught.”

Chesney's nostrils thinned. Miranda could see his gaze flick over Ian. The men with him exchanged nervous glances.

“I came,” Chesney said, “to reclaim my betrothed.”

Ian's chin jutted upward. “Who sent you? How did you know to come here?”

“I am the Viscount Lisle. Not unknown in certain circles.”

“I've no use for a fancy title. Nor, I would think, does a Bedlamite named Gwen. How is it that you know her?”

“Gwen informed me—” The viscount blinked, but his voice never faltered. “By God, I shall not do this! I shall not answer to some Jacobite in kilts.”

Ian's fist twisted into the stock of Chesney's shirt. “I have a very bad reaction to Sassenachs who come to Scotland looking for trouble.”

Two of the soldiers grabbed for Ian. Miranda swayed on her feet. She looked from Lucas's handsome, golden face to Ian, who stared down his opponent with a brooding intensity that suddenly terrified her.

And then the anger started, surprising her with its force. “Damn you both,” she said. Again her voice trembled, but this time it was with rage. “Damn you both to hell.” She slammed her fist down on the top of the dooryard gate. “I have lost my memory, not my wits. And I demand an answer. This instant. Which one of you is lying?”

“You had best hope,” Ian said, shoving Lucas back against his men, “that it isn't me, love, since you just married me.” He rested his palm at the small of her back.

For a fraction of a second, she responded to his touch, her body coming to life for him and him alone, all her wanting centered on him. But she forced herself to step away from him, to confront the shock on Lucas's face.

“Miranda!” Lucas said. “Oh, my poor Miranda. I've come too late.”

She felt as if a cold steel rod supported her rigid back. “Yes and no, Mr. Chesney.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'll tell you what it means,” Ian roared. “Get your fancy arse back to England.”

She could not bring herself to look at Ian, for if she did, her courage would falter. She understood what she had to do, and she could not allow herself to waver.

“It means, my lord, that yes, you are too late to stop me from marrying Ian MacVane, if that is your purpose in coming here.”

Lucas plowed a broad hand through his hair. “Ah, God, Miranda—”

“But it also means,” she went on, hearing the steely coldness in her voice, “that you are
not
too late to put an end to this farce.”

“Darling, I don't know what you mean,” Lucas said.

“Mind how you address my wife, Sassenach,” Ian said.

“You may not call me darling,” she said to Lucas. At last she dared to look at Ian. He stood there, painted by flame and shadow, tall and forbidding, yet somehow aloof. “And
you
may not call me wife.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously, but she forced herself to continue. “Since the—since my accident, I have allowed myself to be buffeted about by men. By the constable who sold me to the warden of Bedlam. By the doctor there. By you, Ian.” Fighting a terrible feeling of loss and confusion, she turned back to Lucas. “And now by you.”