Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  I turned then and left the room. You’re not going to fall for that line of malarky, I told myself. You’re not! The bastard tore your heart out and threw it back at you, and you’re not going to let him do it again. You’re going to be cold and remote and … and you’re going to ignore all these feelings stirring inside. You’re going to fight them with all your strength. You want him, yes. Just looking at him makes you weak all over, makes you trembly, and you ache to touch that lean cheek and feel those arms around you again, but you’re going to fight it.

  Ned was coming down the hall with the tray of food, a fine white linen napkin covering it. I took it from him and thanked him in a shaky voice and told him that would be all. He gave me a curious look and hesitated a moment before nodding and heading back toward the staircase. The tray was very heavy. I carried it back to the bedroom, pushing the door open with my foot, kicking it shut behind me. Cam relieved me of the tray and took it over to the rug in front of the fireplace and set it down, then sat down beside it, the folds of the dressing robe spilling back, leaving his legs and most of his chest bare.

  “Hmmm,” he said, whipping off the napkin. “Cold chicken. Slices of ham. Slices of roast. Bread. Butter. A wedge of cheese. A pot of tea—hot, too. And what are these? Fried apricot tarts, looks like, sprinkled with sugar. A veritable feast.”

  He began to eat then, ignoring me completely, and I stood nervously across the room, watching him, watching the way the loose sleeves of the robe slipped back over his forearms, the way his thick, sleek hair gleamed blue black in the firelight, the way his teeth sank into the piece of chicken, tearing meat away from the bone. The candles were burning down, spluttering quietly, filling the room with a misty gold light that grew dimmer and dimmer as first one, then another went out with a soft splutter of wax. It all seemed like a dream, the dying light, the man in front of the fireplace, the steady patter of rain, but the ache inside was real enough, mounting by the moment.

  Cam finished the piece of chicken, picked up another. “Delicious,” he remarked. “Want some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “A cup of tea?”

  I didn’t bother to answer him. I moved over to one of the windows and held the curtain back and stared out at the night. The rain was slackening now. The clouds were disappearing, the moon almost visible. What was I going to do? How could I send him back out into the night, knowing the property was probably overrun with soldiers? He had slipped past them earlier in the thick of the storm, but they would be far more alert now. He was weak and worn down, thoroughly exhausted. I would put him in one of the guest rooms and let him sleep there tonight and … and worry about the rest of it tomorrow. I had to get him out of the house, yes, but first I had to get him out of this room with the quietly crackling fire and the pale golden haze and the large bed with its covers turned down invitingly, beckoning, waiting.

  I remembered another bed and the lean, hard body and the mouth that covered mine in the darkness, the weight, the warmth of skin, the musky smell, the furor of emotions that mounted as that body pressed and pinioned me and my hands moved over the muscular curve of back and firm, tight buttocks. Clutching the curtain so tightly it almost ripped, I remembered the hard, throbbing entry and the sensations that exploded as thrust followed thrust and wells of bliss brimmed over, bursting into fountains that showered us with splendor. I gnawed my lower lip, trying to force the memory out of my mind. The curtain tore with a soft, shredding noise. I let go of it, damning myself for such folly.

  “You’re frightfully tense,” he observed.

  I turned. He had spread the napkin back over the tray and pushed it aside, and he was drinking a cup of tea, his thumb hooked in the handle, strong fingers curved loosely around the blue porcelain bowl. He lifted it to his lips, taking a long sip, his eyes watching me. I moved restlessly over to the bed and tucked the covers back up over the pillows, smoothing them down.

  “That supposed to tell me something?” he asked.

  “Have you finished eating?”

  “For now. I’ll probably have more later.”

  He took another sip of tea, emptying the cup. He toyed with it for a while, caressing the smooth porcelain, and then he smiled an enigmatic smile and set it down beside the tray. The heavy wave dipped over his brow. His eyes were dark, almost blue black in the dim light, and his face was brushed with shadows as the flames crackled behind the screen, tiny yellow-orange tongues avidly licking the log. The sash had come undone. The robe spilled behind him, one fold carelessly thrown over his thighs. I was so tense now I thought I might scream. I poured myself a glass of brandy, decided against it, set it down so smartly the liquor splashed over the brim.

  “Why did you come here, Cam? Why?”

  “I came for you, Miranda.”

  “After all this time? You expect me to believe that?”

  He climbed slowly to his feet and the smooth black satin lining slipped and slid and he almost lost the robe. He gathered it around him again and tied the sash, ignoring my question, concentrating on the sash, and then he looked at me, cool and self-possessed. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat.

  “Abandoning you was the gravest mistake of my life. I realized that immediately. I cursed myself. I damned myself for the world’s biggest fool. I was a rebel, a wanted man, and I was damn near penniless—”

  “You needn’t have been. You needn’t have taken that money and made arrangements with Bancroft to provide for me. I could have—”

  “This is difficult enough as is, Miranda. I’ll thank you not to interrupt me.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything. I just—I just want to get you out of here.”

  “I blamed you for that night. I convinced myself it was your fault things went wrong. I told myself that if you hadn’t given me that drugged wine, if I had been there with the others, I could have—” He hesitated a moment, remembering, and then he continued in the same flat voice. “A few weeks in the court of the Bonnie Prince convinced me what bloody, idiotic fools we’d been in the first place, what mad folly our intrigues. I realized that if it hadn’t been for you, I would probably have died a fool’s death, to no cause. In short, I came to my senses.”

  I maintained an icy silence, gazing at him without expression.

  “I missed you. I wanted you. My life was empty without you. I finally admitted to myself that I loved you, and I resented that, resented you for disrupting my life. I went to America, hoping to forget you. It didn’t work. I knew I had to have you back, and I knew I had to make something of myself in order to be worthy of you—”

  “So you became a smuggler,” I said acidly.

  “America is a wonderful country, but a man needs to have a solid stake if he wants to succeed there, really succeed. I returned to France, I looked around, I saw that smuggling goods over to England would be the quickest way for me to make the kind of money I needed. I’ve made a great deal, and it’s all been transferred to a bank in Philadelphia.”

  Another candle spluttered out. Only three were left burning now, and shadows danced over the walls as the flames leaped and spluttered, wax popping. Cam moved across the room toward me, the robe swaying, rustling. My heart was beating rapidly. My wrists felt weak, as though the weight of my hands were too much for them, and my knees were weak as well. I couldn’t go on standing much longer. I was going to collapse any moment now.

  “I had originally thought of purchasing a tobacco plantation,” he continued, “but a few months ago I met a gentleman from Philadelphia who owns a newspaper and wants to sell it. I’ve made arrangements to buy it.”

  “You—you’re going to run a newspaper?”

  “Far more fitting than raising tobacco. America—the spirit there is young and fresh and vigorous. No one cares who you are, where you come from. They’re fiercely independent, and they’re already beginning to resent the yoke imposed on them by a distant monarch. The life there, the people—it’s a remarkable place, Miranda, constantly growing
. I want to be part of that growth. I want to make a new start in a new country, and I want you at my side.”

  “I have my own life now, Cam.”

  “I’m fully aware of that.”

  “I have a home, a brother, a—a profession I intend to continue. I’m going to keep on writing books. I—”

  “They publish books in America, too.”

  “You’ve got a—a hell of a nerve, thinking I’d give up all I’ve worked for to go traipsing—you’re out of your bleedin’ mind! You left me. You damn near wrecked my life! I loved you, you sod, and—”

  “You love me still.”

  “I detest you!”

  “You’re lying, Miranda.”

  He took hold of my shoulders. I tried to pull away. His fingers tightened, squeezing my flesh so forcefully I gasped. I wanted to fight him again, hit him, hurt him, but I was too weak, too weak. Cam looked into my eyes, his own full of cool determination.

  “I made my money. I made arrangements to purchase the newspaper. I intended to come to London for you, and then I happened to see the London paper and discovered you were in Cornwall. I decided to make one last crossing with the smugglers, since they’d be landing not thirty miles from here—”

  “Risking your bloody neck!”

  “I was fully aware of the risk.”

  “And came charging ahead! You’re a bloody fool, Cam Gordon!”

  “I well may be, probably am, but I happen to love you, Miranda. There, I’ve said it, and it hurt like hell, but I’ll say it again—I love you.”

  I caught my breath. The weakness vanished, and I was filled with exultation and glorious new strength. I pulled away from him. I rubbed my shoulders where his fingers had squeezed so tightly.

  “It took you bloody long enough,” I snapped.

  He scowled, ire destroying his cool self-possession. His eyes flashed with the old anger. His nostrils flared. I backed away, elated.

  “Goddammit, Miranda!” he roared. “I risk my fool life getting to you! I stumble into a trap, barely getting out of it with my skin intact! I spend two days roaming the countryside without food, I hide in a foul, damp cave and slip past a battalion of soldiers in the middle of a raging storm and then I pour my heart out to you and you make a snippy little—goddamn you!”

  “I didn’t ask you to do any of those things.”

  “You aggravating, exasperating, infuriating little bitch! I must be out of my mind!”

  “I’ve often said so.”

  I had gone too far. Fury possessed him. He lunged for me, the robe flying behind him. I cried out. He seized me and I felt sure he was going to strangle me and then he slammed his mouth over mine and crushed me to him and devoured my lips with his own. I struggled viciously, playing the old game, and he subdued me savagely and I caught his hair in my hands and pulled and then let go and ran my palms over his shoulders and down his back and finally clasped him to me as a thousand sensations shattered inside. He kissed me again, again, his lips moving to my throat, the curve of my shoulder, the swell of my bosom, and I held on, a captive now to those sensations that had been dormant so long, so long, sensations he alone could summon. Leaning back against the arm curled tightly around my waist, I caressed the back of his neck and ran my fingers through that thick silky black hair, lost, lost, spinning in a shimmering void of ecstacy.

  My Scot, my savage Scot, mine again, here in my arms, not in my dreams, his body solid and strong and charged with energy, his lips firm and warm and burning my skin, covering mine again, parting them, his tongue thrusting, my senses reeling, reeling, reality receding, nothing real but the bliss of the moment and the splendor spreading through my veins. He let go of me and I staggered and almost fell and he took my shoulders and turned me around and began to fumble with the tiny hooks in back of my gown, impatient, all thumbs, unable to get them unfastened, finally succeeding, peeling the bodice down, my breasts swelling, nipples straining against their prison of cloth, satin rustling as he tugged at the gown, pulling it down over my waist. I moved my hands down, helping him, stepping out of the circle of satin, wearing only the frail petticoat now, the gauzy skirts billowing, ruffles aflutter as he whirled me back around and gathered me into his arms again and kissed me anew.

  Splendor spread, melting into an urgent ache that grew and grew until the torment was beyond endurance, swelling inside, sending me into a delirium that would surely shatter me to pieces if it weren’t soon assuaged. He caught both thin straps of my petticoat and jerked them down sharply and my breasts burst free of their final restraint. I writhed in his arms as he tugged and pulled at the petticoat, the cloth tearing. He sank to his knees, bringing the gauzy layers with him, tearing at them until they finally fell away and I was naked, trembling, tormented. He clasped the back of my calves and began to move his hands upward, kissing my legs, clasping my buttocks now, squeezing them tightly, his lips moving higher, burning. I swayed and caught his hair and tugged violently, slowly drawing him up, up, and he kissed my stomach, my navel, each breast. I parted my lips and threw my head back, hair spilling behind me, and he kissed the side of my throat and lifted me up into his arms and carried me to the bed and stretched me across it, the pillows to my right, the footboard to my left.

  The last candle spluttered out and there was only firelight as he stood at the side of the bed, looking down at me. I arched my back, the satin counterpane smooth and slippery beneath me. He shrugged his shoulders. The robe fell to the floor with a soft crumpling noise and he stood naked, erect, as lost as I, caught up in a private furor that demanded immediate release. His mouth was tight, his cheekbones taut. His eyes gleamed darkly. The log in the fireplace glowed hot orange-pink, crackling, breaking in two. Fiery sparks showered as he fell atop me and caught my wrists and spread them and plunged into my body with a mighty thrust that caused me to cry out. I threw my legs up and locked them around his buttocks as the mattress sagged and the springs squeaked in a wild, shrieking symphony and he thrust again, again, and the counterpane began to slip and our bodies began to slide and we spilled to the floor, locked together, entangled in folds of satin, barely noticing as senses shredded and wave after wave swept over us and sent us crashing onto that blissful shore of completion.

  Later, much later, he sat in front of the fireplace again, contentedly devouring the last of the apricot tarts, a fresh log burning brightly and filling the room with cozy warmth. Wearing my brother’s now sadly rumpled robe, he was totally absorbed and didn’t notice when I came back in from my dressing room in a thin white cotton nightgown. Ablutions performed, I lighted a few candles and picked up my gown and petticoat and put them away in the wardrobe. Cam finished the tart, licked his fingers one by one and then looked up, lazy and lethargic.

  “You ruined my petticoat,” I informed him.

  “You’re a rich woman,” he drawled. “You can afford a new one.”

  “I see you’ve eaten the rest of the food.”

  “Yeah. I could sure use another cup of tea. There’s some left, but it’s stone cold.”

  “I suppose you expect me to traipse downstairs and make a fresh pot.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt you,” he replied.

  “I’m no longer your servant, Mr. Gordon. People wait on me now.”

  “La de dah,” he mocked. “Who’d have thought it? I pick up a dirty-faced, foul-mouthed little urchin and bring her into my home and she turns out to have blood bluer than mine.”

  “Considerably bluer, you sod.”

  Moving over to the dressing table, I sat down in front of the glass, picked up my brush and began to brush my hair. I felt bruised and battered, aching all over with that wonderful ache of afterglow, but sanity had returned and, with it, calm resolution. I ran the brush through the long coppery red waves that glistened with dark gold in the candlelight. It had stopped raining some time ago, but rain still dripped from the eaves with a steady, monotonous patter. He drew his knees up and folded his arms around them, watching me. I could see his reflecti
on in the glass, firelight behind him.

  “I’ve missed that,” he said idly, nodding toward the bed.

  “It’s been three and a half years, Cam. Don’t try to tell me there haven’t been other women.”

  “I won’t. None of them were like you.”

  “How many?”

  “One or two.”

  “You lying bastard.”

  “Five or six, then. Bored me terribly. You’ve spoiled me for any other woman, you minx.”

  I set the brush down and placed my hands behind my neck and lifted the heavy waves up, the silky weight soft in my palms. Sighing, I let them fall to my shoulders, dark gold gleaming. My eyes were a dark sapphire in the glass, lids coated with mauve gray shadows, and my skin seemed to glow, cheeks tinted a soft pink. How was I going to send him away? I had to be strong. I had to be very strong … but where was the strength to come from?

  “What about you?” he inquired. “You must have been very much in demand after the book came out—young, beautiful, wealthy, famous overnight. I suppose the men flocked around you in droves.”

  “They did, indeed.”

  “That sod Garrick in particular.”

  “Davy in particular,” I said. “He wanted to marry me.”

  “Bloody sod. Wish I’d flattened him when I had the chance.”

  “There’ve been no other men, Cam,” I said quietly. “I can’t give myself unless—unless there’s deep feeling.”

  “And I’ve spoiled you for any other man.”

  He stood up. Folds of heavy navy-blue brocade rustled as he moved over to stand directly behind me, our eyes meeting in the glass. He placed his hands on my bare shoulders and began to gently rub my flesh.

  “You’re coming to America with me,” he said.

  “No, Cam.”

  “I’ve already booked passage on Le Dauphine—it sails from Cherbourg two weeks from now. I booked passage for both of us, Miranda.”

  “You assumed a great deal.”

  His thumbs pressed against the back of my neck, his fingers kneading the flesh on either side. His eyes in the glass were tender, filled with emotions I had never seen there before. Was it possible that he had really changed? I arched my back as his thumbs slid down to press against my spine, stirring the ashes of aftermath, causing them to glow warmer. A honey-sweet languor filled me, spreading slowly, building.