The Fairy Tale Bride (26 page)

As she listened to the unintelligible words
that came in fitful murmurs from the restless figure, she wondered
if there was any possibility that his experiences might have
contributed to his apathy over his own death. After all, facing
death day after day and avoiding it while others didn't might have
made him feel that he didn't really deserve to live.

Perhaps that was why he refused all her
attempts to help him find a cure. Valentine might have told her, if
only he were here. The murmurs stopped, plunging the room into a
silence that felt like the heavy weight of a mantle around her.

If only he could share his thoughts with her,
she knew she could ease his fears. The illness must be a terrible
drain on his energy, and yet he refused to talk about it with her.
He refused to share the burden with his own wife. But he needed her
comfort, and she had every intention of providing it.

Even though she knew he would disapprove, she
slipped into his bed and when he shifted restlessly, she took him
into her arms, stroking his arm, his back, his neck, with gentle
care.

He settled against her with a groan of
satisfaction and his restlessness faded as his breathing grew even
once again. The feeling of closeness and warmth was exquisitely
pleasurable.

Miranda could not bring herself to move away,
though she knew he would not be happy to find her here if he awoke.
His mouth rested against her neck, his hands were warm on her hips.
She lay very still, so that she would not wake him, as she had the
first time, when he had sent her so decidedly back to her own
bed.

Having her sisters in the house had somehow
intensified her desire to be closer to Simon, for some
unexplainable reason. But now, with Simon's warmth and heat
surrounding her, she recognized from where her desire stemmed. She
had always thought that a husband and family were an unattainable
dream. To marry, to give up one shred of her autonomy had filled
her with fear. But it was not so hard to lose a battle to Simon now
and again.

If they only had a long enough time together,
she was certain that he would cease to question her judgment and
learn to trust her. Certainly, she could manage to accomplish that.
He was a reasonable man.

About most things.

For example, now that she had the husband,
she found it impossible not to wish for the family. If only she
knew how to accomplish that without risking Simon's life. She was
certain that having a son would be enough to make him want to fight
to live. How could it not be? Look how tender he was toward Betsy,
and he had thought her mother unworthy to be in his home.

Snuggled against him, she was tempted to kiss
him.

That had always roused his passion before.
Asleep, he would not fight her, would not pull away. And when he
woke, he would bed her and would have nothing else to fear.

She wished she had consulted Katherine on
exactly what manner of seduction would be the least upsetting to a
dying man. Perhaps the shock of waking to find her in his bed would
be more than he could bear?

"Coward," she whispered to herself, deciding
she would stay for only a little while, and then quietly go back to
her own bed. She would lay as quiet as Briar Rose in her
hundred-year sleep. Her anger with him had fled when she had
understood what caused his bad dreams. She could wait for a better
time to seduce him. But she wanted the feel of him in her arms, and
soon the comfortable warmth of his body lulled her to sleep.

Simon's dream was as always since he married
her.

She was in his arms. She felt right, her
curves against his skin as if made to fit only his body ... the
warmth of her, the silk of her skin under his fingers. He brushed
his lips against the softness and heard a sigh like the spring
breeze through budding branches. Under his palm, he could feel the
curve of her hip and the warmth spread through him until he felt as
if he were dissolving, his flesh melting into her flesh not as men
and women joined, but as two beings who become one.

His fingertips traveled along the curve from
her hip to her rib cage and she moved in to him so that they were
one from head to toe, their arms entwined so tightly that he knew
he would never let her go. Never.

She was soft and warm and seemed to come
alive at his touch. He felt a flare of possession as a rush of
quickened breath warmed his cheek and earlobe. He reached for the
heat of her and found it, was rewarded with a moan like the low
wild sound of the wind just as the storm approaches. He released
his own groan to entwine and mingle with the moan until there was
nothing left of the sound but a fierce vibration in his very
core.

He bent his head and filled his mouth with
softness, roundness, heat. A rough, pleasurable pressure built in
him as their one flesh began to undulate in a primitive rhythm and
he held to the dream farther than he ever had before, unable to
give in to the need to wake and learn that there was no one next to
him, no heat, no flesh melded with his.

And he touched her with his hands, his mouth;
there was no part of him that did not touch her, that did not feel
her swell with passion and know that passion himself. He did not
want the dream to end, even when their body, her body, began to
quiver and she whispered his name in his ear. "Simon," she
said.

"Simon," she screamed, softly and their
bodies shattered apart as he woke to the feel of her beneath him
and knew that he was not dreaming.

She protested his retreat, wrapping her arms
and legs around him. He hesitated, his body not yet his to control.
And then he felt the tide of pleasure take her; her arms clutched
him tight against her and she murmured against his ear. "I love
you, Simon."

His body went cold in an instant and he
raised his head to look into her eyes. They were open. Somehow, her
words had given him the strength he needed to halt himself on the
edge of a pleasurable abyss. He felt an absurd sense of panic as he
pleaded, even as he knew it was futile, even as he mastered himself
and his own need, "Tell me you are a dream, Miranda."

Her hands drifted up his side, deepening the
feeling that he was on the verge of going mad. "I'm not a dream. I
promise to be still, Simon. As still as you need me to be. I will
not be too wild. I promise."

She tried to pull him back down to her, with
gentle pressure on his shoulders. To his distress, he found he had
barely enough strength to fight the insistent press of her fingers.
A hoarse cry escaped him as he twisted away and left the bed.

He felt like a fool, standing nude and
shivering in the cool breeze, afraid to come any nearer the bed
where she lay. Even the distance between them gave him no sense of
safety. He knew how easy it would be for him to slip back between
the covers and finish what he had started.

She sat up in the bed. He guessed her
expression to be puzzled, although, mercifully, he could not see
her face from so far away in the night-shadowed room. "Simon,
what's wrong? Are you ill?" He could hear her voice shedding the
thickness of her passion, her pleasure. He felt a fierce flow of
pride that he had given her release, even if he had achieved none
of his own.

"Go back to your room." He did not trust
himself to say more.

She made a movement, as if she might rise off
the bed and come toward him. "But why —?"

"Now!" He supposed the savagery he felt had
been in the tone of his words for she ceased her arguments and rose
from the bed.

He held his breath as the moonlight caught
her in the instant it took for the hem of her nightshift to fall to
her feet. The shift itself did nothing to hide the outline of her
body. And then she was gone through the door. He heard it close
gently and wondered what she must think of him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

She no longer knew what to think.

The stone of the garden bench was cool
beneath her in the dawn's pale light. But the quiet of the morning
had not calmed her churning fears. He had almost made love to her.
He had reached for her in the dark, entwined himself around her
body and her heart, loved her as she wished to be loved.

She closed her eyes against the tears that
came despite her battle to remain dry-eyed and rational. His touch
had been so tender and fierce at the same time — she had shattered
beneath him only to find a surprising peace. And then that peace
had been torn away in an instant by his harsh withdrawal. How could
he have made her feel as if she had truly joined with him into one
soul and not felt it himself?

Was it fear? And if so, why was he afraid to
make love to her if he was convinced he would die shortly, anyway?
He was no coward, she knew it deep inside her with a certainty that
was absolute. Could his pride be the barrier between them?

Katherine said that a man could be afraid of
failing at lovemaking. But if he roused her to such fever with only
the touch of his lips and hands, how could he ever fail her?

Could it be that he was afraid he would fail
himself? Voices startled her out of her seat like a frightened
hare. She could not be found here, not now. No doubt her eyes and
nose were red and swollen from her tears. Questions would be
unbearable, and gossip only a further insult to her own wounded
pride.

As the intruders neared, she hid herself
behind a box hedge and wished them away. It was only as she
recognized the dowager and her American approaching that Miranda
tore her thoughts away from her own misery to wonder what had
brought these two out to the gardens at dawn.

Their voices were lowered, but it was clear
the two were in the midst of a heated argument when the dowager
ground out, "You are mad."

"Listen to me. You don't understand."

"I don't understand? I've lived with them,
father and son for most of my life!" The dowager's eyes glittered
with anger as she stood rigid and brittle, facing down her
American, right in front of the box hedge where Miranda hid.
"Proud. Stubborn. Fools. As are you."

"Not this time. I will not make the same
mistake twice."

Her voice was flat, brooking no argument.
"You already have, by insisting on returning to America."

"That is where our future is." There was an
urgency to his voice, as if he needed her to agree with him.

"My future is here, with my son and his
bride." She added in a whisper, "And Arthur if Simon truly
goes."

He laughed, a short, harsh bark. "You never
belonged here. I should have freed you then, but I was too much a
coward."

She shook her head. "You were not a coward."
Her voice sharpened. "Not then."

He hissed with impatience. "Your husband is
long dead, and Simon is a man now, capable of choosing his own
path. I promise you if you come to America with me — "

She turned away from him and Miranda could
not see her face any longer, only the proud set of her shoulders.
"I cannot throw my hands up at my responsibilities to run away with
you. I am not made that way. You, of all people should know
that."

His voice was harsh with anger and grief.
"Then why did you let me think you cared? Did you think I would
stay and be your plaything?"

The dowager said nothing.

"You know that is all I could be if I stayed
here."

She turned back toward him, a challenge in
her eyes. "That is hardly true."

"Maybe you can't see that it is." He sighed,
and Miranda knew sadly that he had finally given in and recognized
her mind would not change. "Or maybe you think a title and position
are more important than being married to me."

When she said nothing further, he spun around
on his heel and left her standing in the garden alone. Except for
Miranda, still trapped behind the box hedge. Afraid to move a
muscle lest the dowager discover that her most private discussion
had had an audience, Miranda stifled the urge to gasp when the
dowager whispered bitterly, "You and your family motto haunt me
from the grave, Sinclair. Honor and Truth in All. Like father, like
son."

Her legs stiff and cramped, Miranda could
feel only relief when the dowager wandered deeper into the garden
and she was free to slip back to her room. There was no solace in
the thought that the dowager's private life was as tangled up in
pride and honor as her own. It had obviously been so for a very
long time without resolution.

For once she did not have a solution for any
of them. She had to hope that Valentine, as a fellow man, would
offer a key to the puzzle of Simon's pride. At the very least, she
needed her brother's encouragement to lift her spirits and allow
her to believe there was hope for her future. Thank goodness he was
due to arrive within the week.

Sister,

I am fully aware that I am behaving in a cowardly
manner and deserve whatever chastisement you choose to give me next
we meet. But I find I cannot be in residence at the same location
as Emily. Not now that I have read the news of her recent
engagement.

Please, forgive me. I am certain that Simon,
Juliet, and Hero will be your support. And I trust that you will
prove yourself to be the courageous sister I have known all my
life, even without my presence.

v.

Miranda, perched on the bottom stair of the
wide main staircase in the entry hall, stared down at the paper in
her hand, and strove to quell the panic that Valentine's note
raised inside her. He was not coming. Her husband would not make
love to her and might possibly even hate her. In hours her house
would be full of people armed with razor-sharp wit and keen eyes,
and he was not coming. How could he do this to her?

She wanted his advice, had counted on his
level head to guide her. Until she opened the note, delivered by a
towheaded boy in a grimy uniform, however, and read his words three
times in order to make sense of them — believe them — she had not
realized how much she relied on his arrival to bring sense to the
chaos that her life had become.