Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  Get hold of yourself, Miranda, I scolded. You can’t lose your nerve now. Get out of this stinking alley. Get back to the house.

  I turned and started cautiously toward the street that separated the warehouses and the boatyard. Someone was following me. I could hear footsteps behind me. He was getting closer, closer. I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my neck. Nonsense. Nonsense. It’s just your nerves. A rat skittered across my foot. I froze, panting, afraid I’d pass out. The walls of the warehouses on either side of the alley seemed to close in on me like towering black waves that would topple at any moment, swallowing me up.

  He took another step. I whirled around. He was almost upon me. I couldn’t see his face, only a tall, dark form. I gasped. He leaped toward me, and I swung at him and kicked and tried to knee him in the groin, but he was nimble, agile, despite his size, and two strong arms wrapped around me, holding me up, my legs kicking in air. I reared back, fighting furiously, and he dropped me and I scrambled in the garbage and he reached down for me and I caught hold of his hand and tried to sink my teeth into it, but again he was too quick, jerking me to my feet, slinging a warm, muscular arm around my throat.

  “Easy, easy,” he crooned, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  I kicked his shin, reached back, trying to claw his cheek, and his forearm pressed steadily, almost gently against the side of my neck. I felt myself growing dizzy, growing weak, a pleasant lethargy stealing over me as that pressure continued. Everything grew hazy. I began to drift into a warm, cozy oblivion, sleepy, so sleepy, limbs growing numb. “Relax,” he crooned into my ear, “that’s right, just relax, lovely, lovely.…” Then I disappeared into that pleasant, welcoming haze.

  “—in the alley, huddled up on top of those crates under the window and peering in at us.”

  The voice seemed to be coming from a long distance, soft and blurred, not at all unpleasant. I blinked, my head resting back against a broad shoulder, two strong arms curled loosely around my waist, holding me up.

  “Don’t think she could possibly be a spy,” the voice went on, deep and melodious. “Probably a waterfront girl. Fought like she knew what she was doing. I got her in my stranglehold, didn’t choke her, just applied a little pressure against the side of her neck. She passed right out.”

  I opened my eyes. Everything was foggy, softly blurred, but I could see the flickering light and the men around the table, on their feet now, looking at me. The light hurt my eyes. My head ached dreadfully. The husky blond held me almost tenderly in front of him. I moaned and peered up at his face. It was young and fresh and not unattractive, the lips full and pink, the dark brown eyes gentle. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

  “You all right, lass?” he inquired.

  His Scotch accent was pronounced, a pleasant blur as though he caressed each word with his tongue. I nodded and stood up straight, and he unwound his arms from around my waist and rested his large hands on my shoulders with just enough authority to let me know who was in control.

  “How much did you hear?” Cam’s cousin asked sharply.

  “I—I heard everything,” I murmured. “I know what you’re planning to do. It’s—”

  “Shut up!” he commanded.

  “What are we going to do with her?” one of the men asked.

  “We’ll have to kill her,” Ian said calmly.

  “Now hold on!” the youth protested, tightening his grip on my shoulders. “Killing Cumberland is one thing, and it may be necessary to kill his servants, too, though I still think we can get around that, but murdering a girl in cold blood is—it’s every bit as bad as what he did at Culloden!”

  “She has to die.”

  “Robbie Bruce isn’t going to stand here and—”

  “We have no choice,” Ian snapped, cutting him off. “You’re quite adept with that stranglehold of yours, Robbie. Slap it on her again, hold it a bit longer, a bit tighter. It’ll be over in less than a minute.”

  “I’m no killer! I—”

  “Killed your share of Englishmen during the late conflict, though, didn’t you? Young as you are? Killed a number of them with your bare hands if I’m not mistaken.”

  I was in the middle of a nightmare, standing in a murky room with bare brown wooden walls brushed with the elongated shadows of the men who stood around the table, the single lamp shedding a flickering circle of misty yellow light. It was a nightmare, yet I could smell sawdust and sweat and rat droppings and feel Robbie’s fingers gripping my shoulders tightly and feel the blood coursing through my veins. I could see the faces of the other men—Ian’s fierce, determined, Cam’s bored, indifferent, as though he had never laid eyes on me in his life.

  “This is different!” Robbie protested. “She’s not the enemy. She—”

  “No?” Ian asked. “She’s seen all of us. She knows what we plan to do. You’re going to let her saunter out of here?”

  “We don’t have to kill her. We—uh—we can tie her up, keep her prisoner until it’s all over.”

  “Then turn her loose?” Cam’s cousin smiled a chilling, deprecatory smile. “So that she can identify each and every one of us after the fact? You want to be drawn and quartered? Strangle her, Robbie. Show us your technique. Do it!” he ordered.

  “I’m not going to!”

  Ian sighed wearily. He shook his head. He reached into the pocket of his leaf brown frock coat and pulled out a long, thin cord with a knot in the middle. Wrapping an end around each hand, he jerked it, testing its strength, and it made a loud, snapping noise like the crack of a whip. My knees gave way beneath me. I would have fallen had Robbie not slung an arm around my waist, supporting me. Cam’s face still had that cool, indifferent expression. The scar-faced man was scowling. The others looked tense, uneasy.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t your particular skills,” Ian said calmly. “I use a garotte. It’s quite painful, I understand, much more painful than your method. Shove her over here.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Cam informed him.

  Ian whirled around to face him, the cord taut between his hands, and Cam looked at him with bored blue eyes.

  “Put it down, Ian,” he said.

  “You’re going to kill her yourself?”

  “I intend to take full responsibility for her. She won’t give us away, I assure you.”

  “How can you be sure of that? She’s your woman, yes—I recognized her at once, of course. It’s your fault. She must have followed you here. You were careless, Cam. Clumsy. Your little whore is going to pay for it.”

  Cam flipped the tail of his jacket back and pulled out the long black pistol crammed into the waistband of his breeches. He pointed it at the spot directly between his cousin’s eyes, just above the bridge of his nose. His manner was utterly calm, his eyes still bored, but not a man in the room believed he would hesitate to pull the trigger. He cocked it. The noise sounded like an explosion in the silence. Ian paled, his sharp, bony cheekbones turning as white as chalk.

  “Drop the cord, cousin, or I’ll splatter your brains all over the wall.”

  Ian dropped the cord, his eyes gleaming with hatred. Robbie gave a heavy sigh of relief, his breath brushing my cheek. The man called MacLeod, a tall, sturdy Scot with unruly brown hair, chuckled, delighted to see Ian so effectively put down. Ian looked more than ever like a vicious fox.

  “You’re making a grave mistake, Cam,” he said in a thin voice.

  “I’ll take that risk.”

  “You’re risking our lives as well!”

  “Miranda isn’t going to say a word to anyone, before or after.”

  “I still think—”

  “No one gives a ruddy sod what you think!” MacLeod told him. “Let’s get the bloody hell out of here. We’ll meet late Thursday afternoon at The Green Oak.”

  “Right!” Robbie said.

  He released me. I was still weak, doubtful that I could walk, and that nightmare feeling persisted, none of this quite real. Cam thrust the p
istol back into the waistband of his breeches and came over to me and took my wrist in a firm grip and led me out of the room and into the vast warehouse and I stumbled along beside him, my cloak swirling behind me. I could smell cotton and hemp and something that might have been whale oil as Cam moved purposefully toward a door in the rear, undeterred by the darkness.

  The night air seemed cool after the stuffiness inside, and there were a few thin rays of moonlight now, just enough to gild surfaces with a pale silver sheen and intensify the shadows. I could see Cam’s face now and it might have been chiseled of pale marble, hard, immobile. The blond youth caught up with us as we moved down the dark street in back of the warehouse.

  “That was touchy, Cam,” he said quietly, striding along beside us. “Ian and MacLeod going at each other like that, you having to show your pistol. I don’t like the feel of it. Sometimes I think Ian’s gone off his head, getting worse and worse these past months. I can hardly believe he’s your cousin.”

  “Distant cousin,” Cam replied. “We share the same bloodlines, but the relationship is tenuous. He was at Culloden. He witnessed the butchery. It may well have unhinged him.”

  “I was at Culloden, too,” Robbie reminded him, “in the thick of it, in my kilt and tam, lost my weapon early on, had to use my hands, bloody carnage all around, and it didn’t unhinge me.”

  “You’re young, Robbie. Resilient. The young don’t scar so easily. Got your lorry?”

  “In the yard over there. Littered with wilted cabbage leaves and onions, I’m afraid. I deliver produce to Covent Garden,” he explained to me. “Sorry I had to manhandle you in the alley, ma’am. You were like a wildcat.”

  I made no reply. I was still in the middle of the nightmare. We crossed the street, and Cam lifted me up onto the flat wooden seat of a wagon that stood in a dark, littered yard. He climbed up beside me. Robbie Bruce swung up on the other side, grabbing the reins and clicking them smartly. The sharp, sweet odor of onions stung my eyes as the wagon pulled out of the yard. I could hardly see the two sturdy horses. They moved at a steady plod down the street, and the wagon bounced and swayed, rocking me from side to side. Cam wrapped an arm around my shoulder and held me tightly, his profile immobile in the pale moonlight, his eyes staring straight ahead. As we passed a brightly lighted tavern rowdy sailors spilled out onto the street, yelling at us. Robbie Bruce pulled a long whip out of its holder and cracked it in the air over their heads. They fell back, filling the air with noisy obscenities.

  How long did it take us to reach Fleet? Fifteen minutes? Thirty? I lost all conception of time as we drove through the night, away from the waterfront, past the dark squares, past the gambling halls and brothels. Robbie had to use his whip several more times, and once Cam pulled out his pistol, leveling it at two ruffians who rushed us and tried to seize the reins. One look at his face and the gun and they scurried back into the shadows. Fleet was deserted, looking bare and bleak in the thin gray moonlight. Cam swung down, reached up to help me alight, thanked Robbie for the ride and jerked his head curtly, indicating that I should precede him down the passageway.

  The court was silent, but lights were glowing in all three houses. I had left candles burning in the sitting room and the bedroom upstairs, flames protected by glass globes. Mrs. Wooden’s bedroom windows upstairs were soft yellow squares, and hazy light streamed from the windows of Major Barnaby’s study. The leaves of the pear tree rustled quietly as I opened the front door. Everything was calm, quiet, peaceful, but the nightmare quality persisted. I turned in the hallway to watch Cam come in. He closed the door, behind him, locked it and stared at me for a moment before stepping into the sitting room to pour himself a brandy. He hadn’t addressed a single word to me all night. That lethal calm was terribly unnerving. I stood in the hall for a few moments, watching him drink the brandy, his eyes staring at nothing, his face totally devoid of expression, and then I went upstairs to the bedroom.

  I took off the long purple cloak and hung it in the wardrobe. I was surprised to find my hands were trembling as I shut the wardrobe doors. I closed my eyes. I could feel my nerves being pulled taut, tauter, tauter, threatening to snap. When they did I would fly apart. I couldn’t let that happen. I took several deep breaths and stepped over to the mirror and studied my face in the glass. My cheeks were pale, and faint mauve-blue shadows tinted my lids. Candlelight burnished my hair, making it seem a darker red, glinting with coppery gold highlights, and my eyes were a very dark blue, the eyes of a stranger.

  I heard him coming up the stairs. I turned, willing myself to hold on to some semblance of calm. He stopped just inside the doorway, looking at me. He had removed his jacket, his neckcloth. His white lawn shirt was opened at the throat, the full bell sleeves gathered at the wrist. The long pistol was still thrust into the waistband of his snug black breeches, the butt jutting out. He didn’t say a word, just stood there in the doorway with one hand resting high up on the sill, the other lightly touching his thigh. The heavy black wave slanted across his brow, and his blue eyes gleamed with speculation, as though he couldn’t quite decide what to do with me.

  We were silent, and that was appropriate, for none of this was real, it was part of a dream. The lean, handsome man standing in the doorway, the pale woman in her violet blue dress, hair gleaming red gold, the bedroom with its faded lavender walls, shabby blue-gray rugs with pink and green patterns, the heavy dark-oak wardrobe and the huge four-poster with its worn blue satin counterpane—all were insubstantial, wavering in the misty silver-gold light of the candle. The tears filling my eyes made everything blurry, and I brushed them away and forced myself to grasp reality. Cam Gordon gazed at me thoughtfully, and I bit my lower lip, numbness leaving now, emotions sweeping over me.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Get it over with.”

  “You shouldn’t have meddled, Miranda,” he said calmly.

  “You shouldn’t have been there in the first place. You’re a goddamned fool, Cam. You’re going to get yourself hung.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject.”

  “That cousin of yours—he’s mad. He wanted to kill me. I thought you were going to let him.”

  “Perhaps I should have,” he replied.

  I groped behind me, found a hairbrush, closed my fingers around the handle. I hurled it across the room at him as hard as I could. It crashed loudly against the doorframe just inches from his head. Cam didn’t blink an eye.

  “You’re not going to say a word about any of this,” he said.

  “I’m not going to let you get yourself killed, you sod! I’m not going to stand by and—”

  “You won’t say a word,” he interrupted, his voice quite firm, still calm. “You’ll forget everything that happened, everything you heard.”

  “Like hell I will. If you think you’re going to—”

  “I’ll take any measures I deem necessary,” he continued. “If I have to keep you prisoner in this house, tie you up, gag you, I will. I don’t imagine that will be necessary.”

  All the anger went out of me then. I felt weak, helpless, utterly defenseless. Cam bent down to pick up the hairbrush and took it over to a table. The full white lawn sleeves billowed as he moved. He put the hairbrush down, turning to look at me with lazy nonchalance.

  “It’s insanity, Cam, absolute insanity.”

  “I don’t care to talk about it any more, Miranda.”

  He took the pistol from his waistband and placed it on top of the table. The long barrel gleamed silver black in the candlelight.

  “You might as well kill me now,” I said. My voice was trembling. “You’re going to get yourself hung, and I—I couldn’t live without you. If anything happened to you, I’d have no reason to go on living. I—I love you, you son of a bitch, and—”

  “Hush, Miranda,” he said quietly.

  He came over to me and attempted to take me in his arms, and I slapped him across the face so hard my wrist almost snapped. Cam flinched, but his expression never changed. My p
alm stung painfully. My wrist was sore. A vivid pink handprint burned on his right cheek. He pulled me into his arms and covered my mouth with his and I struggled for several moments and then sobbed and clung to him desperately. Cam lifted his head and looked into my eyes, his own gleaming darkly. He kissed me once more, warm lips caressing mine with a new tenderness that gradually grew urgent. He scooped me up into his arms and carried me over to the bed and everything was lost then, lost in the cruel splendor of love that was my salvation and my glory, my torment and my fate.

  29

  The sky should have been wet and gray and oppressive, the city dark, shrouded in gloom this Thursday afternoon, but it wasn’t that way at all. The sun was shining brightly, radiant rays splashing through all the windows, filling the house with silver white light, and a bird had the temerity to warble throatily in the pear tree out front. The sky was a pure pale blue. The air seemed to sparkle. It was, in fact, a glorious summer day, this Thursday, and even now Cumberland’s men were checking out the house in the country outside London while, at the palace, the Bloody Duke and his gorgeous, demure mistress were making preparations to depart. Others were making preparations, too, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.

  There should have been a clap of thunder. Lightning should have streaked across an ominous black sky. The bird trilled merrily. The poodles barked as Mrs. Wooden brought them outside for a romp in the court. I turned away from the sitting room window and listened to the lazy brass clock ticking on top of the mantel. It was four o’clock now, and Cam still hadn’t come back. He had left shortly after twelve, informing me that he had “business” to take care of and would be back as soon as possible. I knew that he planned to leave for the Green Oak Inn at seven in a hired coach … three hours from now. Only three more hours. I tried to hold the panic at bay, tried to hold on to some vestige of calm.

  These past five days had been strange indeed, so quiet, so uneventful, and had it not been for the dark cloud hanging over them—the knowledge of what he planned to do—they would have been wonderful. It wasn’t necessary to tie me up, to gag me, to keep me prisoner in the house, for he knew I wouldn’t say anything. I couldn’t. It would mean his death, along with the deaths of the gentle Robbie Bruce and all the others. A new Cam had been my companion since the night Robbie brought us back from the waterfront. The harshness, the surliness, the scowls, the moody silences and angry outbursts had vanished as though by magic. He had been kind, attentive, tender, if somewhat remote, treating me with a quiet courtesy he had never shown before.