Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  I did just that. The clock struck eight. I separated books, arranged them on the shelves, put them in order. Eight-thirty. Nine. I started on another pile of books. The thunder was growing louder. The house seemed to shake. Douglas should never have gone out on a night like this, I thought, carrying an armload of leather-bound volumes over to a shelf. Virgil, Livy, Suetonius. I’d put the three volumes of Josephus with them. Nine-fifteen. Nine-thirty. The wind stopped abruptly, howling one moment, still the next. An eerie silence followed, as though the earth itself were holding its breath. There was a deafening crash of thunder then, and the deluge began, rain pouring, pounding, lashing the house in furious sheets.

  I continued to work, ignoring the furor of the storm, and by eleven o’clock I had put away all the books stacked on the floor and emptied the crate I had already opened, putting the Roderick Cane novels on a bottom shelf alongside the other novels. The storm hadn’t let up at all. It was, if anything, worse than ever, sheets of rain slashing against the windows like angry waves. Douglas would never be able to get home in this. He would have to spend the night at Morrison Place. I was exhausted now, and I knew I hadn’t the strength to open the two remaining crates from London. The fire had burned down, a heap of glowing coals. The candles were beginning to splutter. I arched my back and brushed a heavy wave from my temple. Maybe I could sleep now.

  Saving one candle in a small pewter holder to light my way upstairs, I put out all the rest and stepped into the hall. It was very dark, walls covered with shadows that seemed to waver and float like ghostly black clouds, the flickering flame I carried providing the only illumination. The rain pounded and lashed in a frenzy, filling the house with rattling, echoing noises, as though a band of demons charged through it. It was cold. There was a draft. My candle blew out. I hesitated for a moment in total darkness, emitting a very unladylike word, and then there was an earsplitting crash, a shrieking noise like a scream, and the hall was filled with a silver-blue flash that lasted only an instant.

  Lightning. One of the trees in back had been hit. Moving past the staircase, I headed toward the narrow door that led into the huge back hall. I wondered how the servants could possibly sleep in this din. They had all retired hours ago, no doubt, and were snug in their beds. Setting the candlestick down on a small table, I opened the door and moved into the cavernous back hall. The long row of windows that looked out over the back were uncurtained, rain pouring down the panes in torrents, and constant flashes of lightning created a bizarre lighting effect, silver-blue, black, silver-blue again, flickering wildly. I stepped over to a window and peered out, and after a moment I saw the tree in the distance, split in two, visible for only an instant in the lightning. Seeing that there was no fire, no apparent danger, I turned to go back, and it was then that the lightning stopped and I was in pitch black darkness.

  “Damn!” I exclaimed.

  It was icy cold back here and so dark I could barely see two feet in front of me. I’d probably stumble on the rush matting and break my neck. Clever, Miranda, I told myself, very clever, prowling around in the dark in the middle of the worst storm in years. I moved cautiously toward the narrow door I had left open, not at all sure of my direction. Icy air caressed my cheeks and stroked my bare arms and shoulders. Had to wear one of your lowest cut gowns tonight, didn’t you? You’ll probably catch your death of cold. Layers of darkness seemed to part in front of me, and then I stopped, paralyzed. A dark form stood some ten feet away from me, solid and unmoving.

  “Who is it?”

  My voice was a hoarse whisper. I could feel his presence now, feel his eyes on me. My throat tightened. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I could only stare at that tall, dark form, black against black, unmistakably human. Never in my life had I known such stark terror. Furious gusts of wind sent sheets of rain slamming against the windows. The back door flew open, banging against the wall. It had been locked. Someone had forced it open, hadn’t closed it properly. Rain swept through the opening, splattering on the floor. There was another flash of lightning, and in the brief, blinding explosion of silver blue light I saw the intruder. I cried out. He rushed toward me. I stumbled. He seized my arms and I struggled violently and lightning exploded again and I saw his face.

  “Hello, Miranda,” he said.

  36

  I drew my foot back and kicked his shin as hard as I could. He grunted in surprise and pain. I pulled my arms free and doubled up my fists and slammed them into his chest and he stumbled back. Lightning flashed constantly now like some bizarre silver-blue light flickering on and off, on and off, and his face showed amazement and alarm as I kicked him again. He doubled over. I seized his hair, pulling it with all my strength. He cried out. He decided to fight back then. He grabbed hold of my wrists and twisted them. I let go of his hair. He swung me around, slamming me up against him, my back crashing into his chest. Flinging his arms around my waist, trapping my own at my sides, he held me so tightly I gasped. I lifted my left foot, stomping on his as hard as I could, and he yelped with pain.

  “Have you lost your bloody mind! It’s me!”

  I stomped on his foot again. He let go of me promptly. I whirled around. His eyes were full of agony. I slapped his face even harder than I had slapped Ramsey. My wrist almost broke. Cam Gordon backed away from me, hobbling. The rain pounded against the windows, swept through the open door. Thunder boomed. Lightning struck another tree. There was a brilliant silver-orange flash.

  “You son of a bitch!” I cried. “You bloody son of a bitch! You haven’t got the brains of a peahen! The whole goddamn countryside is swarming with redcoats, there must be at least twenty watching this house!”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I saw ’em.”

  “Goddamn you, Cam Gordon!”

  “Still the same Miranda,” he said. “I thought maybe you’d changed. I was afraid maybe you’d become that cool, elegant lady you always wanted to be.”

  “I am a lady, you bastard!”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Oh? You certainly fooled me.”

  “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you!”

  “Jesus! You really do bear a grudge, don’t you? Back off. Back off! I’m convinced!”

  Then, to my utter humiliation, I started to cry. Tears streamed profusely down my cheeks. I sobbed. He moved toward me and placed his hand on my arm. I slapped him again. He caught me to him and held me and I continued to sob, resting my head on his shoulder. He rocked me gently, and the splendor of the moment made me cry all the more, that strong body pressed against mine, those arms holding me tightly. So long. So long. It had been so long. I had been half alive. I reveled in the bliss of his nearness, and after a while I lifted my head, looking up at that lean, beloved face.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  “You’re wringing wet,” I said, pulling away from him. “Your hair is plastered all over your head. Your clothes are soaked.”

  “A good, solid rainstorm’ll do that.”

  “You’re a goddamned fool, Cam Gordon. I meant every word I said.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Ramsey knows you’re in the area. He thinks you—he believes the two of us have been in communication. He thinks that’s why I came to Cornwall—because of you. He—”

  “Let’s not worry about Ramsey for the moment.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I didn’t, not until two weeks ago. Thought I was going to have to go back to London for you, and then I happened to see a London paper—I was in France at the time—and decided to make one last jaunt with the smugglers.”

  “You must leave at once.”

  “In this storm?”

  “In this storm,” I retorted,

  “The whole goddamn countryside is swarming with redcoats, there must be at least twenty watching this house.”

  “Don’t mock me, you sod!”

  “You are feeling better.”

  I squared my shoulders and brushed hair from my cheeks
and assumed the dignity I had momentarily lost. I might have been in a torpor the past three and a half years, part of me completely numb, and I was fully, gloriously alive again, every fiber of my being singing with life. I acknowledged it freely, but I wasn’t about to let Cam Gordon suspect how I felt. I gazed at him cooly in the constant flashes of lightning, regal and imperious.

  “Why did you come?” I asked.

  “I think you know.”

  “You want money. You want help.”

  “I want you.”

  “Like hell you do. You turned your back on me three and a half years ago. You broke my heart, you son of a bitch. I’ll give you money. I’ll do all I can to help you get away, for old times’ sake, but you don’t have to cozen me into it. You don’t have to pretend—”

  “Must we really discuss it here?” he asked. “I am, as you observed earlier, wringing wet. I’m starving to death. I’m dropping with exhaustion, and I’m also sore all over from your tender ministrations.”

  “Don’t expect sympathy from me, you sod.”

  “I mean it, Miranda. If I don’t have something to eat, I’m likely to faint. I haven’t had a bite of food in two days. Do you think you could possibly stop acting like a tight-assed countess and give me a little aid?”

  The lightning stopped then. We were in total darkness. The rain was still lashing against the windows and sweeping through the open door, but some of the furor seemed to have gone out of the storm. Several moments passed without either of us speaking, and my eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dark and I began to make out vague shapes and outlines. Cam was shivering.

  “I don’t suppose I have any choice,” I said. “I suppose I’ll have to help you. No one must know you’re here. I’ll take you upstairs to my room.”

  “That’s terribly kind of you.”

  “I’ve had just about enough of your sarcasm, Cam Gordon. Watch your mouth. Understand?”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Had to break the bloody door, didn’t you? Rain pouring in like mad.”

  “I didn’t break it. I merely picked the lock. Guess I didn’t shut it properly.”

  “Close it,” I ordered. “We can’t leave it open like that.”

  “I’m too weak,” he protested. “I’ll get drenched again. I—”

  “If you think I’m going to get drenched and ruin this satin gown, you’re out of your bloody mind.”

  “All right!” he snapped.

  He stumbled over to the door and caught hold of it, and waves of rain lashed him and drenched him anew. He slammed the door and snapped the lock and cursed loudly as he slipped on the floor, almost falling. He groped his way back over to where I stood, and I took his hand and led him toward the narrow door opening into the front hall. We moved alongside the staircase in the darkness, Cam tottering behind me, and I prayed the servants were all still in bed. Gripping his hand firmly, I led him upstairs and along the upper hallway to my bedroom. Several candles burned in wall sconces, their flames protected by glass globes, and the pale yellow light sent shadows scurrying over the walls.

  “In here,” I said, opening the door to my bedroom.

  I pulled him inside. Candles were burning. There was a fire in the fireplace, burning low now, and my bedcovers had been turned back. I felt jubilant, full of strength now, spunky as could be. He really did look weak and pathetic, I thought. He had no coat. His thin white shirt was plastered to his body, his tight black breeches clinging wetly. He was still shivering, and I thought his skin had a faint bluish cast. Letting go of his hand, I put another log on the fire, poked at it until it began to blaze and then turned to face him, all cool efficiency.

  “Come stand by the fire,” I said crisply. “Take off those wet clothes at once. I’ll go to my brother’s room and fetch one of his robes.”

  “Food,” he whispered.

  “I’ll bring you some food,” I retorted. “Do as I say.”

  “Jesus, you’ve become a bossy little bitch, haven’t you? If I weren’t half dead, I’d—”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Drink this.”

  I had poured a glass of brandy from the crystal decanter on my night table. I handed it to him. He gave me an inquisitive look.

  “You’ve become a sot as well as a bossy bitch?”

  I didn’t answer him. I lighted the candle that stood in a silver holder on the mantel and, carrying it with me, moved briskly back down the hall toward my brother’s bedroom, which was located on the other side of the house. Rain splattered against the windowpanes and there were still distant rolls of thunder, but the fury had diminished considerably. Douglas’ room was dark. My candle cast a wavering yellow-orange pool of light that gradually widened, banishing layers of black. Opening the wardrobe door, I pulled down the first dressing robe I saw, a sumptuous navy-blue brocade embroidered with black silk leaves and lined with black satin. I draped it over my arm, picked up the candleholder and departed, closing the door quietly behind me.

  My blood seemed to tingle. My whole body seemed to glow. I might have had a whole magnum of the finest champagne. I was giddy with elation I couldn’t control, a marvelous music inside guiding my steps as I walked back down the hall. He was here. He was waiting in my bedroom. I could hardly believe it. He was a reckless, foolhardy idiot, and I was going to give him hell for taking such an insane risk, but … I stopped abruptly. Someone was moving up the stairs. I saw the circle of candlelight grow brighter and brighter as the footsteps neared the top.

  Ned stepped into the hall. He saw me standing there with the dressing robe draped over my arm, the candleholder in my hand, and I must have looked terribly guilty. If so, he didn’t acknowledge it. His face was expressionless as he gave me a polite nod.

  “Everything all right, Lady M.?” he inquired.

  “Everything’s—just fine, Ned. I was—my brother asked me to—to mend a tear in this robe and the storm was keeping me awake so—so I thought I’d do it tonight. You—you haven’t been asleep?”

  He shook his head. “Storm’s been pretty bad. I figured I’d better have a look around before I went to bed. Everything secure up here?”

  “Secure as can be,” I said shakily.

  “Will you be requiring anything else?” he asked.

  “I—as a matter of fact, Ned, I—I’m ravenously hungry. I wasn’t able to eat much at the dinner table tonight. I wonder if you could bring a tray up?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’m very hungry, Ned. Brings lots of food.”

  He nodded and turned back down the staircase. I heaved a sigh of relief, shaken. I didn’t handle that well at all, I thought as I returned to the bedroom, but at least food was on the way. I opened the door and stepped inside. Cam was standing in front of the fireplace, tall and tan and lean and completely naked. He had draped his clothes over the firescreen. They were beginning to steam. His boots stood beside the hearth, tilting crazily, crusted with mud. He had dried his hair and brushed it, and the thick, straight locks gleamed jet black in the firelight. I handed him the rich brocade robe without a word. He slipped it on, drawing the silky folds around his naked body, fastening the satin sash around his waist.

  “What about my food?” he demanded.

  “You’ll get your bleedin’ food!” I snapped.

  “Temper hasn’t improved a bit, I see. You may be the elegant Lady Miranda like they say, with all the posh trappings, but the feisty little street urchin still lurks beneath the surface. You just dropped your final ‘g.’”

  “Go to hell,” I said.

  “I’ve been there for the past three and a half years.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I think you know.”

  He looked even leaner, I thought, the planes and angles of his face sharper than ever, severely handsome. That heavy black wave was slanting down over his forehead again like a lopsided “V” with the point above his right eyebrow, and the blue eyes looked at me with lazy detachment. The brocade
robe rustled with a silken sound as he reached up to smooth back a lock of hair, the sumptuous navy-blue folds shimmering, black silk leaves seeming to ripple. I felt a tightness in my throat and an ache inside that spread through my body like fever.

  “You’ve done well for yourself,” he said.

  “I have, indeed.”

  “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered. I’ve never seen you in a gown like that. Your brother buy it for you?”

  “I bought it myself. I happen to be an extremely wealthy woman.”

  “I’ve read about your success,” he told me. “Every time I had an opportunity I read the London papers. They always seemed to be full of M.J. I read Duchess Annie—chap in Brittany had a copy, I borrowed it. Norman Lloyd was obviously patterned after me—and you weren’t particularly kind. He was an utter bastard.”

  “Drawn straight from life.”

  “He was also a goddamned fool, deserting Anne as he did, turning his back on the one good thing that ever happened to him. The book cut a bit too close to the bone. I resented it bitterly.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “I resented it because I knew I could never hope to write anything half as good, because it made the bloody melodramas I wrote look like the claptrap they always were. I resented its success, the fame and fortune it brought you, and I knew I was every bit as big a fool as your Norman Lloyd, a miserable son of a bitch who didn’t deserve anyone as rare, as special as Anne.”

  “Ned will be bringing the food up,” I said coldly. “I’d better meet him in the hall and take the tray from him. He mustn’t find you here.”

  Those clear blue eyes studied me closely, peering into my soul, and I felt a flutter of panic.

  “My confession upsets you?” he asked.

  “Your ‘confession’ doesn’t mean a bloody thing to me. You are a miserable son of a bitch, Cam Gordon, and my only concern is to get you fed and out of my house as soon as possible.”