The Fairy Tale Bride

by Kelly McClymer

CHAPTER TWO

  Simon stirred the fire, his back to Miranda. It amazed him that he had not yet wrung her slender neck. So she thought he could dismiss this gross invasion of his privacy? If she had intruded any later, the damning papers in his pouch would have been laid out on the table. She could not know how he had changed if she thought he would not seek compensation for the way she had turned his life upside down this night.

  He had believed his infatuation with her long dead, until today. Holding her in his arms, the feel of the rounded underside of her breast against his fingers, and hearing her innocently questioning whether he would play Prince Charming and pursue his Cinder Ella had done more than rekindle those feelings. He was ablaze with a desire so strong it was driving him mad. Why else would he be considering seducing her?

  Suddenly, all he could think of was the fact that, in other circumstances, she would now be his wife. If that were so, he would not have to play with the fire and keep his eyes turned away from her or risk exposing the heat of his desire to hold her, to kiss her, to make love to her. For a moment, he regretted that he had never managed to turn himself into a devil, despite his efforts. For a devil would have no qualms in seducing Miss Fenster. But the old duke's training was too firmly branded into his heart, despite its falsity.

  He sighed into the fire, bringing it further to life.

  But he, Simon-the-no-longer-saintly, had more than qualms. He had good reason not to marry and he'd not risk getting Miranda with child and bringing a new bastard into the world. Somehow though, the good reasons didn't seem good enough tonight. Fate had literally dropped this woman into his arms. And he was damned tired of the cruel jokes Fate had been playing on him.

  How many of his men had died in India, fighting the barbaric practices of suttee and the cruel murderous thugees who struck without warning? But not Simon. He had shrugged at danger, had thrown himself into the midst of any situation without a thought to watching his back. And still, he survived. But he intended to cheat Fate of any satisfaction for leaving the bastard duke alive. And he would do so without breaking the promise he had made his father — no, the old duke. The newest duke would soon be dead, replaced by a true-blooded heir. And Simon Watterly would exist no more. He would take another name, another life — and never would he take a wife.

  Of a sudden the wind whipped up, wailing past the cottage. Simon shivered at the sound, remembering how he had stood motionless, surrounded by murderous thugees, daring Fate to take him then and there.

  The thunder of gunfire and the screams of the dying men had sounded very much like the laughter of the gods, and he had not died.

  And now he was here, in a one-room cottage with Miranda only a few feet away. She had been in his arms, had touched his cheek with her gentle hand. He wanted to believe that she was truthful when she assured him she was not trying to compromise him into marriage. He had thought her entirely honest five years ago.

  But of course, that was before he had learned that Fate was not done playing with him. Since he had been home, acting as the Duke of Kerstone until he could install a true-blooded heir, at least a dozen or so young "innocents" had thrown themselves at his head in some most ingenious schemes, no doubt configured by their ambitious families. He had found them in his bed, in his carriage, half-dressed in the garden, and fully-nude in the library.

  He had extracted himself from all the situations cleanly — even the miss in his bed. She had been the most innocent-looking of all of them, and he'd paid off her papa before she had even finished dressing.

  Was Miranda like them? Unable to resist, he glanced over his shoulder. If he had any doubt at all that this innocent-seeming young woman was wearing no stays, the sight of her cheerfully slicing fruit and cheese in the lamplight in her damp dress answered definitively that she was not.

  With a hope of dimming the smile on her face that drew the tension in his belly to a sharp point, he said, "Your brother would not approve your being alone with me."

  Her answer was calm, but her smile actually widened. "Valentine does sometimes worry overmuch about my judgment, but I assure you it is sound enough to know that I am safe with you."

  He checked his impulse to pivot and face her, instead turning his gaze back to the flames. "If you believe so, you are a fool."

  There was a momentary silence, and he pictured her imagining herself seduced and abandoned, until she dispelled that notion, her voice ripe with amusement. "I felt certain that I could trust a man who risked his life to pull one of the men in his command away from a suttee fire in which he had been thrown — or who saved a wounded man from death at the hands of thugees, using his own body as a shield." Her voice softened, all traces of amusement gone. "Or one who dared scandal by helping a foolish young lady escape misfortune with her reputation intact. "

  Simon was taken aback. How on earth had this sheltered miss heard such tales, true as they were? Valentine's judgment must be as sorely lacking as his sister's. "A man can be brave in battle and craven in —" he searched for a delicate way to state his meaning and then decided that Miss Fenster could do well with a little shock — "lust."

  "Not you, Your Grace," she demurred, forcing him to turn away from the dancing flames to stare at her. Was the girl completely daft or supremely crafty?

  Was it possible she didn't understand what could happen to her, even after Grimthorpe's assault? "Let me make it quite clear to you that, even if it were public knowledge about our ill-spent evening, I could walk away from you with only a blot that would quickly fade. Your reputation, however, would be ruined forever."

  "You needn't tell me." Her hands stilled for a moment. The tight line of her lips softened suddenly as she smiled with a shyness that was absurd given their present situation. "I was never able to thank you for seconding Valentine in the duel."

  The look in her eyes was even more dangerous than that of a young woman determined to make herself his wife. He had seen such a gaze before, in the eyes of his youngest, most untried men. Dear God, the woman had a case of the hero-worships for him.

  He half rose from his crouch at the fire to protest, but she lifted the paring knife from the cheese wedge she was slicing and waved him to silence. "Valentine told me all about it, you know, even though Mama strictly forbade him."

  She lowered her eyes and sliced into the cheese.

  "It was to be my punishment — to hear nothing more of London. As if I cared." She pressed her lips together, silencing herself as she took an apple and began slicing it, wielding the knife with a stroke that cleaved the fruit cleanly into halves, then quarters, then eighths.

  He was shocked. "Surely you had another chance at a Season? Your reputation remained unmarked. Your parents must have known you'd grow sensible enough for a second try?"

  "I don't know. They never said any such thing before they died." With a quick shake of her head she added, "Then, of course, there was no possibility of a Season. I had my sisters to see to, and Valentine was too far away to be of use."

  "Surely you were not left to yourself to provide for the family? Had you no uncle to step in?" Once again, Simon wondered at Valentine's lack of responsibility, to leave a young woman in charge of a badly out-of-pocket household.

  Her chin lifted and her gaze met his, although her face was flushed with color. "I am quite capable, Your Grace. Valentine never doubted my abilities to attend to things while he was away."

  "I'm surprised you didn't set your cap for a wealthy spouse, as he did."

  She shuddered. "Quite honestly, I was determined to never marry."

  He nearly laughed aloud at the candor he remembered so well from five years ago, but the subdued panic on her face reminded him, suddenly, of the expressions of young soldiers who had not yet gone into battle as they listened to their more experienced comrades trade stories. "Indeed?"

  "Husbands are as bad as fathers. They believe they have the right to decide how a woman will live her life — and to beat her if she will not comply."

 
There was scorn in her voice. For the first time, Simon was certain that she had not set out to compromise him. His curiosity rose. "Perhaps you should have conveyed that thought to Emily. She might not have consented to elope with your brother, then."

  Her chin lifted. "Valentine is different. He is in love."

  "With a well-dowered woman, conveniently."

  "With Emily. And he would love her, dowry or no."

  "Then he will need to adjust his expectations, and love her from afar, for he will never have her."

  "Does that not break your heart? That anyone must love from afar when both parties wish the match? It seems so cruel." Her voice was low, and should not have squeezed the breath from his lungs as it did. Her gaze met his directly. "Can you not intercede? Convince your uncle of what a fine man Valentine is? He is, I promise you."

  Simon admired her loyalty, though he wished she didn't have the tenacity of a dog with a meaty bone. And how had she turned their conversation from her own danger to the tricky matter of broken hearts and star-crossed lovers? "Once he makes up his mind, he never unmakes it."

  She sighed. "Yes. That's what Emily said when she convinced Valentine to run for the border."

  Simon laughed softly. "The little minx. And I always thought her so responsible — for a woman."

  Her eyes flashed with momentary indignation, quickly controlled. "She wanted to help Valentine realize his dreams. They talked of what use they would have for her inheritance — Anderlin is in sore need of repair, and they wanted to invest in the West Indies trade ... "

  "Well, if he wants such dreams to come true, I'd say it is clearly Valentine's duty to find an heiress whose parents are not so particular. As a beginning, he could bestir himself from his misery, and not rely on his sister to cure his troubles."

  She stared at him for a moment, her eyes wide. And then, to his surprise, she bent her head as if in defeat. Her voice was a mere whisper; "I have done it again, haven't I? I only wanted to make things right for him, and now I've convinced you that he is truly the heartless fortune hunter you thought him." She raised her gaze to his. "It isn't true, Your Grace. I came of my own accord. Valentine would have stopped me, if he'd known."

  "I don't doubt that, Miss Fenster. Still, he shared a womb with you. I would expect him to know you well enough by now. If he can't handle you, he should find you a husband who will."

  Her chin lifted. "Valentine is not fool enough to marry me to a man who seeks to control me. And I would not want him to marry but for love."

  Hearts and hero-worship; he should have known.

  "Then you are both fools, for love is a temporary aberration, and marriage requires a sharp business acumen — to ally oneself with an inferior partner will bring you nothing but disaster for your lifetime." He watched her eyes flash with fire and wondered how she might ever find a husband who was not inferior to her magnificence. The thought of her as another man's wife bred fury in him.

  "Valentine is not an 'inferior' partner. He would have — he will make Emily a fine husband. And certainly you should not speak so cynically. You have had your choice of alliances and yet you have not married. Surely you are waiting for the one who touches your heart as well as adds to your pedigree? Perhaps someone from whom you would not need to hide the contents of that leather pouch of yours."

  Her words were a blow to him, but he hid his pain with a quick smile. "I'll have you know, Miss Fenster, that I once, quite foolishly, nearly offered for a young woman based on the color of her eyes and the quickness of her smile. Only Fate intervened in time to save us both from an unhappy union." Fate, and the burden he carried next to his heart every waking moment.

  He saw her curiosity pique, but she asked nothing of who, as many a woman might. "Nonsense. That is not love — liking a woman's eyes and smile. That is physical attraction. I am talking of a meeting of the souls and minds of two individuals who are meant for each other — like Cinder Ella and her prince, or Rapunzel and the man brave enough to climb far from solid ground to reach her tower."

  As she stared at him, fully expecting him to agree with her romantic drivel, Simon suddenly had no doubt that hero-worship was an even more dangerous emotion than the avarice felt by the army of young women angling to marry him by fair method or foul.

  She was so serene, so certain that he posed no danger to her reputation that he suddenly wanted to discompose her as badly as she had unsettled him. "Can you be so sure? What do you know of the power of physical attraction?"

  Her smile faltered and she quickly turned her attention back to the apple in her hand. "I have had a few suitors since Mama and Papa's death."

  Knowing the kind of men who would have offered for a young woman without parental guidance, Simon's stomach clenched in anger. "And you found none of them acceptable?"

  She shook her head. "That burst of physical attraction you spoke of seems to bring most men to behave in completely unacceptable ways." She sighed. "But you yourself have risen above such physical cravings, Your Grace, so you must recognize that there is something finer, and more satisfying in a higher meeting of souls."

  For a moment, Simon considered revealing how much he had been enjoying the way her soaked muslin gown revealed her slender figure. He imagined her lips parting slightly in shock. But then she would cover herself, no doubt regaining that formidable composure of hers within minutes. No, he needed something more ... shocking ... to bring Miss Fenster to her senses. And he did not want to forgo the pleasure the sight of her curves gave him. It was like probing a sore tooth with his tongue: looking at her, knowing the danger — to them both — in seducing her.

  His own clothes were as soaked through as hers, which gave him the idea for which he sought. He had already stripped his sodden jacket off and thrown it over a stool near the fire. Casually, as if he did not know she was watching him from the corner of her eye as she worked, Simon stood, unfastened his shirt, pulled it loose from his breeches and removed it. He hung it on the iron pothook for the fireplace, positioning the hook so that the shirt was far enough away not to burn, but close enough to dry quickly in the heat from the fire.

  He seated himself on the stool, removed first one boot, then the other, placing them neatly beside a dusty pile of blankets. He stood up, reaching for the fastening of his breeches.

  At last, she gasped. "What are you doing?"

  He turned slowly to savor the sight of her, jaw agape, frozen in surprise with a bowl of fruit cradled in her arms, as if for protection. Wickedly, he spun the moment out just slightly longer than necessary before he answered, "I'm ensuring that I don't take ill. Shouldn't you do the same?"

  At that, she looked down at her own gown, the skirts dragging the ground from the weight of the water, then back up at him. There was a puzzled frown on her face that deepened as he started to peel away his riding breeches. But she did not turn away from him as he had expected. Instead, she stared at him, up and down the length of him, with a hint of wonder.

  Suddenly, with her gaze transfixed upon him, he felt as shy as an untried boy. He snapped, "I am not a ham, Miss Fenster. Kindly stop gawking as if you were at market."

  He was warned by the narrowing of her eyes. "If I were at market, and you were a ham, I should certainly not ogle you. You are no gentleman to insult me so." She whirled away, but not so quickly that he couldn't see her mouth twist in pain as her injured ankle gave way and she lost her balance.

  Simon started forward to offer a steady hand as she struggled to maintain her balance against the hampering cling of her wet skirts. Before he could reach her, she lost the struggle with a last toss of her arms. The bowl of fruit she had held struck him in the chest, taking his breath away. She landed in a sprawl on the floor.

  He held out his hand to her, unable to resist a gentle barb. "You can see now how dangerous wet clothing can be."

  She refused his hand as she rose. Without looking at him, she swept her disarranged hair from her cheek where it clung. She had the grace to blush and sud
denly he was not so much angry as sad. A woman with such courage and loyalty, not to mention that unique flair for skirting disaster, would have made an unforgettable duchess – under his tutelage to smooth out the unfortunate tendency to impulsiveness, of course.

  But that was not to be. Anything he had to teach her must be taught tonight. He felt the old emotional wound open as he stared at her hair, half fallen out and curling with the damp. And she certainly deserved a lesson for this foolishness. If he were any other man, he had no doubt that she would have her skirts around her ears, by now. The thought made him groan aloud as he captured a handful of damp curls, the same color as cinnamon, and let them rest in his open palm. "You should see to your own health, Miss Fenster. You are as wet as I."

  Her eyes were huge, but still trusting. He wanted, more than anything at that moment, to make love to her, to make sure that she would never put herself in this position again. He stepped closer. "It would be a misfortune should you take ill … before I have received my compensation for the trouble you have put me through."

  She breathed shallowly, as she tried to avoid his bare flesh. "I agree that you deserve some recompense, Your Grace. Perhaps I might shine your boots?"

  He was tempted to laugh, which amazed him. He had not laughed in a long time and Miss Fenster had coaxed the urge more than once in under an hour. "I would prefer payment of another kind. Do I dare hope that the infamous Miss Fenster will agree? I well remember the black eye Grimthorpe sported the morning of the duel."

  Her trembling lips tightened and her voice was a soft whisper. "Mother never told me that I'd blackened his eye. I'm surprised she didn't add that to my long list of sins." Her chin came up a fraction more, and suddenly the blade of the paring knife rested against the flat of his stomach. "As you were not harmed then by my actions, Your Grace, I cannot believe you would allow me to be harmed now by yours."

  Though he was relieved that she had the sense to realize she was in danger, Simon reacted as swiftly as if she had been a London cutthroat, disarming her of the knife before she blinked.

  Her eyes wide, she stared at the knife he now held, as she cradled her wrist gently in her other hand. He had not the slightest doubt that she would not have harmed him. Still, it was better that she know she was outmatched. She might take the lesson to heart, at last.

  A smile twitched on her lips as she breathed out softly. "You are magnificent. How could you disarm me so swiftly?"

  Magnificent? He was magnificent? Did the dashed woman not understand that he was seducing her? Simon used the back of his hand to stroke gently and slowly from her chin to her ear. She stood still for his caress, making no protest, not even the softest of sighs. Her eyes captured his. He did not know how to read them, did not know how to look away. Her skin was firm and silky under his fingertips. Simon closed his eyes briefly. When would she protest? When would she finally believe he had gone too far?

  Goading her further, Simon drew his forefinger across her lips. They parted slightly, her breath came warm on his finger. And all the while, her gaze was upon his, trusting, worshiping and, dear God, desiring. Simon fought his urge to touch her lips with his own, or to allow his hands to explore the curves displayed by the clinging of her damp clothing.

  He reminded himself sternly that he wanted a reaction from her, not from himself. But Miss Fenster swayed toward him slightly, apparently unable to oblige him with the affronted response he was seeking. And all he could think of was that she could have been his wife. He could have had her in his bed every night.

  Pain supplanted desire at the thought; he could not bear to seduce her and discover fully what it was that he had lost.

  With a sigh, he grasped her shoulders and turned her away from him so that he could unfasten her dress. Her shoulders stiffened in his grip.

  "What are you doing?" Her voice was husky – with fear, he hoped.

  "Helping you out of your wet things. You can drape yourself in a blanket." He wondered if his impertinence would finally spur her into response. But she stood silently as he peeled the clothing away from her back.

  Simon exhaled sharply. "What is this?" Through her damp, practically transparent chemise he could see the faint, but unmistakable white scars that came from severe lashing. One of his fingers came up to trace a scar that snaked wickedly down to the small of her back and beyond.

  She shivered and pulled away from him. "My father did not approve of my outspoken nature." Her shoulders stiffened, and he heard the ring of defiance in her words. "I will never let another man have such complete power over me that he could beat me for my belief in my own abilities."

  Anger swept through him and made his words intemperate. "You say you will not give a man power over you, and yet you stand here, uncorseted, in a dress so damp it hides not one curve – except for at the bosom, where it threatens very enticingly to fall away and display your breasts."

  She stared down at her loosened bodice and clutched it tight. But she did not pull away from him.

  He sighed. "You have allowed me to all but undress you, Miss Fenster. I daresay I could take you here and now if I wished."

  She opened her mouth as if to protest, and then closed it. For a moment, uncertainty crossed her features.

  She blinked rapidly, and he realized that she was about to admit her weakness. He turned away from her, to prevent the confession for it was best left unsaid. He crossed the room and tossed a blanket to her across the few feet between them.

  She blushed crimson. "I was not thinking …"

  "That, my dear Miss Fenster," he interrupted her hastily, "seems to be a trait you and your brother share."

  He had hit a nerve with that, he saw, when she drew herself up haughtily and replied, "Valentine's integrity is as great as yours, Your Grace." She crossed the few feet of distance between them to stand close enough to burn him with the heat of anger in her eyes.

  He realized that she still had no idea what she risked being here alone with him. Her head was full of dreams and ideals of love and honor. It struck him that she was still as naive about men and women as she had been five years ago. So far, she had been fortunate to have been pursued by men for whom she had felt no physical passion.

  He shuddered, thinking of how willing she had been for his caresses. All because he was a hero of some trumped-up tales of bravery she had heard secondhand. He closed his eyes. In London there would be dozens more "heroes" who could ignite that same fire, no matter how much his ego cried out that she felt such things only for him. And, despite her father's cruel discipline, she had no defenses in place to prevent her own ruination.

  His urge was to call upon Valentine and insist that a husband be found for Miranda at once. But he had no right to do such a thing. And he could not, without Valentine learning the whole story. Still, he felt a strong desire to ... to show her just what danger she courted.

  Even as he took her in his arms and bent his head to kiss her, he told himself he intended to give her no more than a taste of what could happen when a woman was at the mercy of a rake. But when she opened her mouth under his in a small gasp of surprise and then curled her hands around his neck, he forgot all but the taste of her.

  ***