Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  'Wait till you see the sunset.' He closed his eyes and appeared to give every indication of fulfilling his intention of sleeping.

  For a moment she was reminded of that other occasion when she had looked down on a sleeping Jason, and a tender smile curved her mouth. There was that same strangely vulnerable air about him, as though he shed the hard façade he donned for the world, and a rush of emotion engulfed her; how she loved him. The same little temptation returned, strong in her, to touch and smooth those fascinating silver wings in the dark hair at his temples, and her hand almost winged to temptation's bid­ding when the grey eyes opened and that disturbing gaze fastened on her face.

  'Don't look at me like that—I can't,' he said, his expression not flickering.

  She felt a tremor, even as her mouth framed the silent sweet query which she did not need answered.

  'There are too many people on this plane, or I would.' His mouth quirked, and now his glance was outrageous. 'It'll be at least another four hours before we're alone.'

  She folded her hands in her lap and broke the spell of his eyes, wishing the smiling stewardess hadn't chosen that precise moment on her return journey to pause and inquire if any re­freshments were wanted.

  'Not at the moment, thank you,' Jason dismissed, and then, in the same breath, 'you're blushing, my sweet.'

  'What do you expect? she whispered indignantly. 'It's your fault.'

  His white teeth glinted. 'I'm going to have to take a hell of a lot of blame, then. You blush a most endearing rose—must be the artist in me—it's a tint I want to keep on seeing.'

  'I thought you wanted to go to sleep,' she reminded him, with the softest suggestion of reproach.

  He gave a slight shake of his head. 'It's escaped me. I need someone to tell me a bedtime story.'

  'Jemima Puddleduck? Or Brer Rabbit?'

  'No, I grew out of them a long time ago.' He sought her hand and enclosed it in his strong warm clasp. 'I expected a more romantic suggestion from you, little Miss Meake.'

  'Sleeping Beauty, or…?' She lapsed in dreamy-eyed silence, for the moment too happy even to think.

  'Who was awakened with a kiss…? That's more in my line…'

  Even the mocking note, never absent for long from Jason's voice, could not destroy the enchantment. Those first few hours of tentative seeking into the man-woman relationship were the most delightful she had ever experienced. That weaving a spell of enchantment might be an art at which Jason was all too expert when he chose did not occur to her; she was too much in love to want to resist the magic, and too much in love to hide that fact successfully.

  The glory of a crimson sunset over the Caribbean was as much as Jason had prophesied—even more. They dined high above the silver moonlit sea, and came down into the black velvet night and the myriad lights of Mexico City. There they encountered the first delay, and an hour-long wait for the flight which would complete their journey. Jason fumed, and Mir­anda once more remained in the silence of wisdom, and when at last they were airborne again he relaxed rather unwillingly and said wryly: 'If all travellers were as patient as you no one would ever get anywhere.'

  After a few moments of reflection he said suddenly: 'There should be a small surprise waiting at the hotel for you.'

  'A surprise?' she echoed. 'I didn't know one could arrange surprises from so far away.'

  'You can arrange anything from anywhere if you know the way to go about it,' he said dryly.

  He made no further mention of the matter, and she was left to speculate as to the nature of the 'surprise' which should be waiting at their destination. At last she gave up; it might be anything from a full-scale Mexican bridal reception to a bou­doir of orchids! Jason was so unpredictable anything was pos­sible; he was also, whatever faults he might have, extremely generous.

  And then they landed. At last they were stepping down into the rich alien dark of the Mexican night, to new strange scents and sounds, to a sense of excitement that banished the traces of travel tiredness which had begun to steal unawares over Miranda, despite her determination not to miss one single moment that life could offer.

  Lights, music, neon and floodlighting bathing people and places in every hue imaginable. Flowers making the air heavy with their fragrance, laugher, gaiety, lovers both young and old, the necklace of reflected sparkles laid on the bosom of the ocean, and most potent of all, the almost tangible smell of wealth. Only the rich could afford to play long in Acapulco and any traces of poverty were soon swept from the streets.

  Miranda was unaware that her hand had crept into Jason's and her eyes were unnaturally bright as the taxi stopped at the hotel and two small dark-eyed boys rushed to take out the cases. Wide glass doors swung open and a waft of cool air billowed out like an invisible curtain from a white and rose furnished reception hall, and instantly Jason was being accorded the attention he took as his right.

  The kaleidoscope of impressions was still swirling colour-fully in Miranda's brain when she found herself out of doors again, being escorted with Jason by the dark, voluble man who had greeted them. The path wound though gardens of plants that looked even more exotic under golden lanterns and star­light than she imagined they would appear under the sun and ended by a wide terrace of pink and blue crazy paving. There was an oval pool, dotted with floating blossoms, and beyond it the miniature villa into which the voluble little man ushered them.

  It was all white inside, with vivid Mexican rugs scattered on the cool polished floors and boldly patterned curtains and cushions providing a brilliant contrast of traditional colours against the white. There was a lounge with wide garden doors giving on to the terrace and music playing softly from an as yet undiscovered source; a kitchenette fitted with a well stocked fridge and a miniature bar of drinks and ice-cold fruit juices; a big airy bedroom with its own half-moon terrace overlooking the sea, and a sugar-pink bathroom glittering with chrome and wide mirrors. There was a choice of three restaurants if they wanted to dine, or they could have their meals in privacy in the villa, the dark man told them; there was a bar in the centre of the main swimming pool where they could sit on a stool in the water and cool off as they sipped their drinks, and there was dancing on the Crystal Roof if they felt so inclined. And if there was anything they required… Oh, and the things the Señor had ordered had arrived; they were being brought over from the main hotel this minute.

  Jason finally persuaded the little man that everything seemed to be perfect, while Miranda gazed around her in a state of bemusement. She hadn't taken it all in and the little man's steps had scarcely faded across the terrace before the retinue arrived bearing what seemed like dozens of enor­mous flat boxes, all white with tiny gold coronets stamped all over them and shiny gold ribbon tied across the lids. Jason gave calm directions, a discreet exchange of coins was made, smiles, flashed all round, and the little retinue departed. At last there was silence, except for the soft strains of music and the muted background sounds from the gardens and the hotel.

  'Well, Mrs. Steele?' Jason sauntered in from the patio. 'Do you approve?'

  'Of this? I'm overcome!'

  'I thought you might prefer it to the more conventional hotel suite. One can relax more, I think. Well,' he folded his arms, 'supposing you fix your husband a drink. I'm exhausted.'

  'Oh, yes!' Eagerly she hurried to the miniature bar, looking uncertainly at the unfamiliar brand names. 'What do you want?—Some of these look frightfully potent.'

  'Iced lager.'

  Her hands were trembling as she opened the can and poured it into a tall glass. Excitement and tension were beginning to take effect now and she felt light-headed and unsteady as she took the drink to him.

  'None for you?' His brows lifted.

  'No, I couldn't—Is that all right?'

  'Fine—do you want anything more to eat tonight?'

  'Do you?'

  'Not particularly. But you didn't eat much on the plane.'

  'I'm not hungry—I think I'd better start unpacking.
'

  He lolled back among the cushions. 'You'd better investigate those boxes.'

  'Are—are all those—for me?' Her eyes were enormous.

  'When you open them you'll see they're certainly not for me. Although,' his mouth curved wickedly, 'in a way they are.'

  She hesitated, and then went slowly into the bedroom.

  The boxes were stacked in a heap, beckoning and intriguing, in the middle of the white carpet, and the trembling of excite­ment possessed her again as she lifted the top one and looked at it for a long moment before she succumbed to curiosity and pulled the gold ribbon ties.

  It was a little like opening Pandora's box, but with infinitely more attractive results. From under softest tissue floated a cloud of apricot gossamer which slowly settled into the folds of a negligee. She held it against herself, and then saw that the box was not yet empty. More layers of matching apricot tissue yielded undies of the same gossamer nylon, sheer, soft, sen­suous, the kind of luxury wear Miranda's sensible, thrifty heart occasionally dreamed of but would have hesitated, even if she came into a fortune, ever to indulge in the extravagance of buying for herself.

  In a kind of fever she delved into the boxes, one by one, little cries escaping her as each gave up their delight. Fairy cobweb lace in delicate lilac, slip, briefs, bra and nightdress… a myriad tiny pleats of electric blue swirling from the white swansdown yoke of a negligee… rose pink scattered with tiny rose-pearl stars… lemon voile with long floating satin ribbon streamers… a midnight blue creation of exotica, embroidered with silver orchids, that had its matching nightie and blue velvet bandeau, presumably for her hair… each more exquis­ite than the other…

  'Are they the right size?' came Jason's voice lazily from the doorway.

  'I—I think so. I haven't tried any on yet.' She was still bewildered, amid a sea of tissue paper and lingerie that was flowing over both beds and lapping the floor. 'But Jason… You can't mean—not all these—there must be a fortune here. I can't possibly—'

  'Do you like them?'

  'Of course! They're exquisite. But—'

  'I had to guess your size at a twelve,' he cut in, 'if they're not right they can be changed.'

  She looked at him weakly and shook her head.

  He touched the rose pink wrap with the tiny stars, and a faint smile curved his mouth. 'I thought of having you select your own choice back in London, then I decided those shy principles of yours might not allow you to accept rather intimate gifts before the circle of gold made it all in order.'

  Her gaze dropped before the expression in his eyes, as she wondered if her reaction would have been quite as prim as he surmised. 'They're beautiful,' she whispered. 'You're too gen­erous. I—'

  'Is that the lot?' he cut in, suddenly abrupt, and turning over the heap of tissue and box lids. 'Have you opened them all?'

  'I think so.' She bent over the tide of colour, startled by his change of tone. 'What's the matter? Have they sent the wrong—' Instantly she leapt to the conclusion that indeed a great mistake had been made. These weren't for her. These were intended for another visiting bride, or a film star, or a princess. The orders had got mixed…

  'The idiots!' Jason swore, rapidly tossing the empty boxes into a corner. 'Somebody's slipped up. Half of it's missing.'

  He turned and met her blank astonishment and gave a ges­ture of impatience. 'Look, darling. Surely it must be obvious. That damn girl… I wanted to play it your way. I guessed it mattered to you. And she's sent every colour under the sun except the important one.'

  At last Miranda realized what he meant. Amid the exquisite hues only one was missing, the traditional bridal white. The fact that he had thought of this brought a sudden tightening in her throat and a smarting to her eyes. She turned away and began to make a brisk task of seeking hangers in the long fitted wardrobe to hang up the new trousseau. 'It doesn't matter,' she said chokily. 'I wouldn't change them for anything else, even as white as driven snow.'

  There was no response, only the sounds of his own case being opened and unpacked.

  She tried to laugh. 'I don't think I'll need to unpack—except my swimsuit.'

  He only said, 'Are you going to unpack now? Or shower first?'

  'I—I'd better unpack first,' she said slowly.

  'Then I'll shower now.'

  It seemed he had already unpacked, with the speed of one long practised in the traveller's art, for his case reposed on the rack and through the partly open bathroom door she could hear the chinking of toilet accessories being set on glass shelving. Suddenly she seemed to be in a muddle of possessions, and when the splashing sounds ceased she was still trying to organ­ize her things. He strolled back in, his dark hair glistening and ruffled with moisture, clad in a dark blue towelling robe with white lapels and tie-sash. His brows went up as he surveyed her and the garments still strewn around, and he lounged down on the other bed.

  'Want any help?'

  'No, thanks, I can manage.'

  He shrugged and continued to lounge there, watching her with half closed eyes. That silent, lazy regard began to wield a strange effect, making her feel awkward and unsure of herself, a self-conscious feeling becoming more pronounced with every passing moment.

  'Leave it, for goodness' sake,' he said at last, and stretched out one hand. 'Come here.'

  Suddenly she was painfully conscious of him, of his male-ness, of all that this night should mean, and of a constraint that was almost fear of making her its prisoner.

  'I'm almost finished—I can't leave all this untidiness.' She tried to retain a sense of normality, trying to put into words her own mental reassurance: 'If I come over there I'll never get anything organized tonight,' and laugh as she spoke.

  But the small laughter refused to come convincingly, and at that moment she reached the last item in her case, the simple peignoir of pale blue seersucker and the little frilled nightdress she had bought along with the other items of her modest trousseau. They had seemed sweet and charming when she chose them with such care and respect for her slender budget, but now, in comparison with the luxury of Jason's gift, they seemed very ordinary, almost inferior.

  'What's the matter?'

  'Nothing.' She closed the case and put it on the rack beside Jason's, then hesitated before the wardrobe.

  'Sure?'

  'Sure.'

  'But I don't think you are.' Soundlessly he had moved, to put his hands on her shoulders and turn her to face him. Her heart gave a choking little bump, and suddenly she desperately wanted reassurance. If only he would say that he loved her, if only he would make her forget this new frightening feeling that he was a stranger. Make me love you! she willed him silently. Make my world right again… She raised a tremulous gaze to his face, pleading unveiled in her eyes.

  'Has anyone told you how beautiful you looked today?' he said softly.

  Her lashes dropped, to veil disappointment. 'You yourself—and Susan and Sir Charles.'

  'Susan and Sir Charles!' Jason mocked softly. 'I do believe you're genuinely without vanity. What other virtues have I yet to discover in you, I wonder? Patience, modesty, meekness, innocence… I hope you're not going to bring out too much of the best in me.'

  'You make virtues sound very dull.' The more obvious, trite riposte did not occur to her at that moment; had it done so she would not have voiced it. Again that wave of uncertainty car­ried her helplessly on it and the doubts were building their dark barrier round the man who had stormed her heart. Desperately she tried to banish them, to match the kind of mood he seemed to expect of her. 'But you've forgotten. I'm stubborn, and im­pertinent, and a whole lot of other things.' She forced a giggle. 'You said so yourself. Remember? The night I pitched camp in the sacred sanctum of the great white chief?'

  Jason's brows narrowed, then crinkled with amusement. 'I did say some rather frightful things to you that night, didn't I? I'm still not sure how much they were deserved.'

  His grasp tightened on her shoulders, pulling her aga
inst him, and the warm masculine smell of his lotions and shower talc entered her nostrils. She saw the brown skin of his throat and felt the vibrations of his voice as he added: 'Oh yes, you have unsuspected depths, my little nocturnal intruder, and I'm going to explore every single one of them…' His mouth came down hard on hers, stifling any reply she might have made, and now there was the sense of a long-pent restraint being cast aside.

  The caressing hands slid across her back, warm and rough with impatience on the thin silkiness of her sleeveless top, com­municating their urgency. He whispered something incoherent through the kiss, and then the frail barrier of thin jersey was no longer barring his seeking hands. His touch burned like fire on her skin and when the soft sigh of triumph escaped him she stiffened.

  'Scared of me already, Miranda?' he whispered huskily.

  'No—but I'm not ready—I haven't showered,' she said wildly, slipping out of his grasp.

  He closed his eyes despairingly as she tugged at the dishevelled top. 'Go on,' he sighed, and turned away.

  She snatched up her wrap and toilet bag and fled into the shower room. Like one in a fever she brushed her teeth, show­ered and talced herself before she was properly dry, and fought out a crazy mental dialogue with herself all the time. Crazy to sigh with relief as she pulled the nightdress on and thrust her­self in the wrap. Why should she fear his coming in while she was naked? She knew what marriage meant. She was in love with him—she shouldn't be shy or afraid of him…

  She tied back her hair, and her fingers and toes felt icy, despite the heated atmosphere. In the mirror her eyes were wide and darkly brilliant, and the girl reflected there looked like a stranger. Abruptly she turned away and forced herself to calm. She dabbed skin fragrance on wrists and temples and walked back into the bedroom.

  Jason had retired. He lay back, his hands behind his head, a single sheet pulled up to his bare chest.

  He eyed her without moving, his expression enigmatic.

  She paused uncertainly. 'My hair got soaked in the shower.'

  His brows moved non-committally. 'Feel better?'