Unconquered (11 page)

“I’ve brought your supper.”

“I don’t want it!”

Jemima picked up the tray again. “It’s all the same to me,” she said, heading out the door with Miranda’s supper.

Miranda scrunched back down in her bed, seething angrily. A few minutes later the door opened again, and she heard the sound of the tray being put back on the table. “I told you I didn’t want any supper!” she said.

“Why?” came the sound of his voice. “Are you ill, wildcat?”

There was a long pause and then she said, “What are you doing in my bedroom?”

“I came to see if you were all right. You sent Jemima back with the tray.”

“I’m all right.” She was beginning to feel very foolish. She had attracted his attention when she hadn’t meant to at all.

“Then get out of bed, and come eat your supper like a good girl.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m in my nightgown.”

He chuckled at her modesty. “I have a sister, Bess, and many’s the time when we were growing up that I saw her in her nightgown. Besides, we’re being married in five weeks, Miranda. I think we might be forgiven a little informality.” He walked over to the bed and, drawing the covers back, offered her his hand.

Trapped, she grudgingly took it, and slipped from the bed. Leading her over to the fireside table, he gallantly seated her, and then sat opposite her. She eyed the tray suspiciously, then lifted the napkin. There was a steaming bowl of clam chowder, a plate of fresh cornbread, a small dish of sweet butter and honey, a custard tart, and a pot of tea. “There was a joint of beef for dinner,” she protested, “and ham, and I saw both apple and pumpkin pie.”

“If you are late to my table, Miranda, you cannot expect to be fed from it. I had Cook send you something nourishing and filling. Now eat your soup before it gets cold.”

She picked up her spoon obediently, but her sea-green eyes said to him what she dared not, and he repressed a chuckle. She ate quickly until the bowl was empty, then said, reaching for the cornbread, “Why do you persist in treating me like a child?”

“Why do you persist in behaving like one?” he countered. “You arrive late for dinner, pretending my presence is a complete surprise to you while we both know that you were in the woods above Little North Bay this morning, watching me land.”

She flushed deeply. “Why did you say nothing?” Her eyes were lowered.

“Because, Miranda, I assumed you wanted to be alone. I was attempting to respect your wishes, my dear. I know this is not easy for you. But it is no easier for me. Did it ever occur to you that I did not wish to marry yet? Or that perhaps there was
someone else in my life for whom I cared? You have, like the spoiled child you are, thought only of yourself. In the next few weeks before my family arrive you are going to practice behaving like the woman I know is beneath that bratty veneer,” he finished firmly.

“I am afraid,” she whispered low, her defenses suddenly crumbling.

“Of what?” his voice was gentle now.

She looked up at him, and to his surprise her eyes were filled with tears that suddenly spilled over onto her cheeks. She tried to blink them away. “I am afraid of growing up,” she said. “I am afraid of the feelings you raise in me, for they are ambiguous and confusing. I am afraid I shall not be able to be a good lady of the manor. I love Wyndsong, but I was a terrible failure in society. Amanda knew just what to do in London, but despite the fact that I’d been taught the same things, despite the fact that I am thought to be smarter, I was gauche and awkward while my sister shone. How can I be your wife, Jared? We must entertain, and I am awful at small talk. I am too intelligent for a woman, and my speech is blunt.”

A great wave of pity washed over him, but to offer her his sympathy would, he knew, only alienate her further. He wanted to take her onto his lap, and assure her that all would be well, but to encourage her childishness now would be a terrible mistake.

He leaned across the table and took her hands in his. “Look at me, wildcat, and listen. We both have some growing up to do. I’ve avoided the responsibilities of manhood rather successfully for more years than most. Suddenly I find myself responsible for this manor and its well-being when I’d rather be off chasing the British or outsmarting the French. But those times are over for me, as your childhood is over for you. Let’s make a pact, you and I. I promise to grow up if you will.”

“Is there someone?”

“What?”

“Someone else you’d rather marry?”

“No, wildcat, there is no one else.” His eyes twinkled. “Are you relieved or disappointed?”

“Relieved,” she answered simply.

“Dare I hope you are entertaining what is called in polite society a ‘tender passion’ for me?”

“No,” she said, “I simply didn’t want to lose my fortune.”

He burst out laughing. “Good Lord, Miranda, your tongue
is
blunt! Hasn’t anyone taught you tact? One may be honest without being quite so frank.” He kissed her fingertips, and shyly she withdrew her hands from his.

“What should I have said?” she asked, daring to look him in the eyes.

He smiled at her. “You might have told me that it was much too soon to be sure of your feelings. A fashionable lady would have blushed prettily and said, ‘La, sir! You are naughty even to ask such a question.’ I realize that is not quite your style, Miranda, but you do understand what I am getting at, don’t you?”

“Yes, although it seems rather silly to couch the truth in folderol.”

“Silly, but sometimes necessary, wildcat. The plain truth frightens people. Trust me, Miranda, and we will grow together. Now,” he stood up, and coming around the table drew her up so that they were facing each other, “about the other matter. You say you are afraid of the feelings I raise in you. Did you know that you raise the same feelings in me?”

“
I do?
” He was very close now. She could smell the male scent of him; feel the heat of his long, lean body; see the slow pulse beating at the base of his throat.

His big, elegant hand caressed her silver-gilt hair. “Yes, you do,” his deep voice murmured as his arm tightened about her slender waist.

She almost stopped breathing. Her eyes widened and grew dark. He bent and brushed those ripe lips gently, so very gently. “Oh, yes, Miranda,” he murmured against her mouth, “you very definitely set my senses awhirl.” Tenderly he nibbled at her lips while one hand reveled in the silky texture of her lovely, long hair. He held her in a firm but easy embrace, and now with a soft little moan she fell back against his arm. He kissed the cleft in her chin, then traveled the satiny length of her throat downward to her breasts. The ribbons holding the two halves of the front of her nightgown together melted away. With a groan he picked her up, carried her across the room, and lay her on the bed.

He lay next to her fully clothed, and drew her into his arms. He kissed her with a passion that left her only semi-conscious, but still acutely aware of her newly awakened desires. She felt
the thin hold she had on herself giving way as he buried his face in her breasts. A hungry, wet mouth closed over a swollen, aching nipple, and as he suckled eagerly, she felt with lightning-sharp awareness a corresponding ache in the hidden place between her legs. His fingers soon found that hidden place, and stroked her gently.

After what seemed a sweet eternity he rolled over on his back and, taking her slender hand, placed it on the covered badge of his gender. Wordlessly he taught her the rhythm, and shuddered beneath her delicate touch until finally he stopped her and said in a strangely hoarse voice, “You see, Miranda, if you are helpless beneath my touch, then so am I helpless beneath yours.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

“There are many things you don’t know, wildcat, but I will teach you if you will let me.” Then, leaning over her, he slowly retied the ribbons of her gown and, smoothing her tangled hair back, gently kissed her goodnight.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Miranda lay quivering for some minutes. So that was lovemaking! She realized that in being entirely truthful with him she had given him a powerful weapon against her. Still, he had not used that weapon. He had been equally truthful with her.

Being a married woman would entail responsibilities. Why, she might even be a mother by this time next year.
A mother!
The thought raised a host of new doubts. She certainly would have to grow up herself before she could nurture a child. Oh Lord! What was she letting herself in for?

For the next few days Miranda was strangely subdued, and her mother feared she was falling ill. She did not ride, but stayed indoors, poking around the manor and asking questions about the operation of the household. Amanda understood, and wondered what it was that Jared could have possibly said to turn her rebellious sister into such a docile creature. She also wondered how long it would last. The question was answered within the week, when Miranda, wilted and exhausted from a day of making grape conserves, burst into tears at the dinner table.

Jared leaped up, and was at her side immediately, his concern obvious, to Amanda’s amusement.

“I cannot do it,” Miranda sobbed. “I simply cannot do it! I detest homemaking! Oh Jared, how can I ever be a good lady of
the manor? I burn the jam, I ruin an entire batch of cod by oversalting it, my pumpkin pies are overspiced, the soap I made smells more of pig than perfume, and my candles smoke!”

Relieved, Jared stifled his laughter. “Oh, wildcat, you misunderstood me. I don’t want you to be what you’re not. I only want you to understand how the manor is run. It is not necessary for you to make jam or soap, or salt cod. We have servants to do those things. You need only know how it is done so you can supervise.” He took a slender hand in one of his, and placed a soft kiss on her upturned palm. “This sweet hand is far more skilled in
other
things,” he murmured so that only she could hear, and a soft blush colored her cheeks.

Dorothea wondered about this intimacy between her daughter and Jared. True, they were to be wed shortly, but was it entirely proper that he put his arm around Miranda? She had learned from Jemima that he had taken the tray into Miranda’s room the other night and not come out for a full half-hour. With surprise, Dorothea realized that she was envious. After all, she was still young enough to love. The sight of Miranda and Jared in close proximity pained her as she remembered how it had been between her and Thomas. She sighed softly. Had life stopped for her? She wondered.

The next few weeks sped by as final preparations for the wedding were made. These were mostly ignored by both bride and groom, who rode the island on good days and closeted themselves within the library on bad ones. Occasionally they were joined by Amanda, who was absolutely delighted to see how well suited the pair was.

The Plymouth Dunhams arrived
en masse
—six adults and five small children. After an initial uncomfortable moment both families settled down together. Elizabeth Lightbody Dunham and Dorothea Van Steen Dunham quickly became friends. Jared’s mother was enchanted with Miranda, who was on her very best behavior. Dorothea was far better used to hearing Amanda accoladed, and she said so.

“Of course,” agreed Elizabeth. “Your little Amanda is perfection, and she will certainly make Lord Swynford an ideal wife. But she would never do for Jared. Miranda has spirit. She will lead my son a merry dance, which is exactly what he needs. He will never be quite sure of her, and consequently he will always
treat her well. Yes, my dear Dorothea, I am more than satisified with Miranda.”

St. Nicholas Day dawned clear and cold. The sun had barely peeped over the horizon, reaching with warm golden fingers across the cold blue waters of the bay, when boats set out from both forks of Long Island for Wyndsong Manor. Among the guests would be the Hortons, Younges, Tutills, and Albertsons; Jewels, Boisseaus, Lathams, and Goldsmiths; Terrys, Welles, and Edwardses. The Sylvesters from Shelter Island were coming, as were the Fiskes from Plum Island and the Gardiners from Wyndsong’s neighboring island manor. The house was already filled with the Dunhams, and several days earlier Dorothea’s relatives and close friends had begun arriving from the Hudson Valley and from New York City.

The twins’ Van Steen grandmother, Judith, was still alive, her corn-colored hair now white, but her eyes as blue as ever. Like her daughter, Dorothea, and her granddaughter, Amanda, she was petite and plump. Her first glimpse of Jared elicited the comment, “He looks like a pirate—an elegant one, but a pirate nonetheless. He’ll suit that vixen Miranda to a T, I’ve not a doubt.”

“Good Lord, Mother! What a thing to say.” Cornelius Van Steen the younger, current patron of Torwyck Manor, looked embarrassed. “I must apologize for my parent, sirs and ladies,” he nodded to the assembled gathering of Dunhams and Van Steens.

“No one, Cornelius, has to apologize for me,” snapped old Mrs. Van Steen. “Bless me, but you’re a prude! How I could have borne such a son is beyond me! I meant the observation as a compliment, and Jared knew it, eh, my boy?”

“Indeed, ma’am, I understood exactly what you meant,” replied Jared, his green eyes twinkling, and he raised her plump white beringed hand to his lips and kissed it.

“Bless my soul! A rogue as well!” exclaimed the old lady.

“I am that too, ma’am,” came the reply.

“Heh! Heh! Heh!” chortled the elderly woman. “If I were thirty years younger, my boy!”

“I’ve no doubt of it, ma’am,” was the smooth answer. He punctuated his remark with the lift of a bushy black eyebrow.

Miranda chuckled, remembering the incident. She was standing
looking out her bedroom windows at the dawn sky. It was going to be a beautiful day. Behind her, the fireplace crackled with a sharp snap as the applewood burned. Amanda inquired sleepily from the bed, “Are you up already?” The press of guests had made it necessary for them to share a bed these last few days.

“Yes, I’m awake. I couldn’t sleep.” Miranda glanced around her bedroom. Tonight she would sleep in the newly decorated master suite of the manor, and for days she had lived with that thought. All her life this had been
her
room. Her double-sized tester bed with its lovely green and white linen homespun hangings. The posts on the cherry-wood bed were turned, and as a child she had lain in bed imagining what it would be like to slide down the turning, going round and round and round until she slid dizzily into sleep. There was a beautiful cherry-wood chest-on-chest with flame finials on one wall of her room, the brass pulls always kept shining. Her dressing table had been made especially for her fourteenth birthday, its built-in mirror of precious glass, perfect and unflawed. There was a round piecrust table to one side of the fireplace, and on the other side, an armed ladder-back chair with a green velvet cushion.