Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I couldn’t leave without you, Miranda.”

  “You’ll have to, Cam. I have a new life, and—and I’m very pleased with it. I’m not going to—” I closed my eyes, praying for strength. “I’m not going to throw it away for—for folly—”

  He was leaning over me now, his lips brushing my earlobe, his knuckles running up and down my spine.

  “Stop, Cam. Please stop.”

  “I’ve missed you. God, I’ve missed you.”

  He curled an arm around my throat, resting his lean cheek against mine. I smelled his hair, his skin. I trembled with longing, and I knew I must resist. I must. I must.

  “I’m not going to be hurt again, Cam.”

  “I’d never hurt you,” he murmured.

  “I—I survived it once. Somehow I managed to get over what you did to me and put the pieces back together and get on with my life, but I—I couldn’t do it again.”

  “Words. Mere words. You love me.”

  Taking hold of my shoulders, he turned me around so that I was facing him. Candlelight flickered. The fire crackled. He pulled me to my feet and held me loosely.

  “You love me,” he repeated.

  “I don’t deny it. I’m not pleased about it, but—yes, I love you, and I wish to hell I didn’t. It would be much easier that way.”

  The arm around my waist drew me closer, my thighs against his. I felt his manhood, swollen, throbbing, pressing against me. He kissed my temple, cupping my chin in his free hand and tilting my head back so that I was forced to look into his eyes.

  “I’ll run the newspaper, and it will be the best newspaper in America and I will be a solid, respectable citizen, Mr. James Ingram—that’s the name I’ve been using—and we’ll have a fine house and you can go on writing your novels and I’ll write brilliant editorials and—”

  “No, Cam.”

  “And you will be the beautiful Mrs. James Ingram and I the envy of every man in Philadelphia.”

  I didn’t answer. I looked away from him, visualizing it, knowing it was a dream that couldn’t be. He hadn’t changed. He was still a rebel at heart, athirst for adventure, and he would meet like kind in America and they would conspire against the distant monarch and there would be trouble and I couldn’t survive another heartbreak.

  “I’ve just asked you to marry me, Miranda.”

  “It would never work, Cam.”

  He kissed me then, a long, lazy kiss, gathering me closer, and I felt my bones ache and my blood tingle as the splendor spread anew. I made a valiant effort to fight it, trembling inside, and he lifted his head and looked into my eyes and smiled. I shook my head as he took my shoulders and slowly backed me toward the bed.

  “Guess I’ll have to persuade you,” he crooned.

  “It—it’s almost dawn—” My voice was barely audible. “You—you must get dressed and—”

  The back of my knees touched the mattress, gave way, and he gently shoved me down until I was stretched on the bed, my breasts swelling against the beribboned white bodice. He stood back, silhouetted against the candlelight, my tormentor, my fate. He reached up, catching the lapels of the robe and parting them. The robe slipped from his shoulders and dropped softly to the floor.

  “I love you,” he said huskily, “and you love me. There’s no other woman in the world for me—no other man for you. I think we established that rather conclusively a while ago. Guess we’ll have to establish it anew.”

  “No, Cam—” I pleaded.

  He blew out the candles and moved back over to the bed in the light of the fire and sat down beside me and pulled me up into his arms and brushed his lips lightly over my brow.

  “Once more,” he murmured.

  “It won’t make any dif—”

  “Once more, Miranda.”

  37

  A dim gray light filled the house, colors not yet distinct, as I moved upstairs with the coffee I had prepared in the kitchen. None of the servants were up at this early hour, and the house was very still, so silent my footsteps seemed to bang loudly, though I moved almost stealthily, and the rustle of my silk skirts was like the crackle of dry leaves. Pale white rays slanted in through the windows at the end of the hall upstairs, wavering white spokes swirling with motes of dust. Darkness had melted away, but the sun hadn’t yet appeared to dissolve the predawn gray. I moved slowly down the hall, balancing the tray carefully, walls a dark gray, almost black, floor ashy gray, bright gray-white where pools of light spilled and spread. Reality is gray, and this is reality, I thought. Last night was fury and fireworks and splendor, but night is over now and now I must face the gray reality.

  Reality was fifty soldiers scouring the countryside, at least half a dozen watching the house. Reality was Captain Jon Ramsey, determined to capture the man in my bedroom. I had put him off yesterday, but I had no doubt he would be back, perhaps this morning. Somehow I had to get Cam out of the house and safely on his way to France. At the moment I had no idea how I was going to do it, but I had no doubt I would manage it. I had saved him once before, and I would save him now, doing whatever I must, whatever the risk, whatever the cost. Cam wasn’t going to be captured. No. I would save him somehow, and he would leave the country and I would never see him again. I had made my decision, and that was reality, too. The madness and magic and marvel of the night had stolen my senses, had transported me into a realm of quivering emotions, but emotion was contained now, under tight control, and I was able to use my head.

  Cam had fallen into a heavy sleep soon after our second tryst, arms wrapped around me, one leg thrown over mine as of old, and I had lain awake listening to his breathing, smelling his skin, his sweat, savoring the warmth of his body and the discomfort as he stirred in his sleep and bones dug into my flesh and weight crushed down. I made no effort to disentangle myself. I stared at the darkness and wept silently and made the only decision I could sensibly make, and after a while, as black gradually faded to gray, I finally got up and put another log on the fire and heated water and bathed and brushed my hair and put on this low-cut bronze silk gown with its off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves and tight waist, skirt spreading out over layers of bronze underskirts, vain enough to want to look my best during our last hours together, and then I had gone downstairs to make the coffee.

  I stepped into the bedroom, closed the door behind me and set the tray down on the dressing table. The fire was burning low. Wavering spokes of hazy white light slanted in through the windows with just the faintest touch of orange pink now, a bare suggestion of color. Cam was still sleeping heavily, his legs twisted in the bedcovers, his head buried in a pillow he clutched tightly, as though it were a wrestling partner he had vanquished after great exertion. His naked back glistened with a thin layer of moisture, and his hair was damp, too, darker, the heavy locks like black, black ink spilling over his brow and clinging damply to the back of his neck. I poured myself a cup of coffee. He moaned in his sleep and scowled, shifting position, clinging to the pillow and kicking the bedcovers off his legs.

  The room was warm. I opened a window. A bird warbled in the distance. The sun was beginning to rise, pale red and gold banners spreading on the horizon. I went back to the dressing table and sat on the stool and sipped my coffee, watching him sleep. I was calm and composed and filled with resolve, but that resolve wavered as I remembered the second time and the lazy deliberation of his lovemaking and the incredible ternderness that was a marvel of restraint. Intent only on my own pleasure, he had given as he had never given before, murmuring lovely words all the while, and it had gone on and on until rapture became blissful agony that sent me into a shuddering oblivion of ecstacy. He did love me, yes. He had convinced me of that, but it didn’t change things. I mustn’t let it. I must listen to my head and heed not my heart.

  The slanting rays were pale pink-orange now, no longer white, and gray began to vanish. I set my cup down in the saucer. It rattled loudly. Cam snorted and scowled and opened his eyes. He pulled himself into a sitting position and r
ested his back against the headboard and blinked, shoving damp locks from his brow. The light was growing stronger by the moment, bright pink-orange changing to misty gold, gold fading to silver. Cam looked at me sleepily and blinked again and smiled. He patted the mattress beside him. I shook my head. He frowned. Pouring a cup of coffee, I took it to him and then, sat back down on the stool as the light grew brighter still. He took a sip of coffee.

  “Delicious,” he said. “Strong, too, just like I like it. You remembered, didn’t you?”

  “Hurry up and finish it. You have to get dressed. We have to get you out of here.”

  “Your voice is terribly crisp.”

  “I’m sorry. Drink your coffee.”

  “No eggs? No toast? No kippered herring?”

  “There isn’t time.”

  “You look cool and calm and frightfully efficient this morning,” he told me. “You also look incredibly lovely. Your hair’s like copper fire in this light, and that bronze gown—I’ll never be able to afford to buy you dresses like that when we get to America. You’ll have to pay for your own clothes.”

  I said nothing. He drank his coffee, looking at me with fond eyes. I felt a sharp pang and got up and bustled about, picking up my brother’s navy blue robe, tossing it onto the bed, straightening things, fussing. I folded his clothes and placed them in a chair and picked up his boots. Flecks of dried mud scattered onto the hearth. I put the boots down and turned and Cam held out his empty coffee cup.

  “One more cup,” I snapped. “You’ll have to drink it quickly.”

  “You angry about something?”

  I refilled his cup, handed it to him. “No, Cam, I’m not angry.”

  “Why the brisk manner? Why the clipped voice?”

  “I’m trying to be sensible. One of us has to be. You seem completely oblivious to the fact that you’re a wanted man, condemned to a certain painful death if captured. You seem indifferent to the fact that Cumberland’s personal agent is on your trail and is very likely to show up here with a band of soldiers. Forgive me if I’m not up to breezy chatter.”

  “There’s something else,” he said.

  He set the cup of coffee on the night table and got up and pulled the dressing robe around him, his eyes never leaving mine as he fastened the sash. His expression was grave, and I could sense anger beneath the surface. I wasn’t up to a scene. I couldn’t handle one. I silently pleaded with him to let it drop, but he was determined to bring it out into the open.

  “You’ve made your decision, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, Cam.” My voice was weary.

  “I’m not leaving without you, Miranda.”

  “You’ll have to.”

  “But—” His eyes were puzzled. “Last night—I thought we settled—”

  “We settled nothing, Cam. Last night was—was nothing but wild, extravagant emotion. It always was with us. There’s more to life than that. I can’t live on my nerves. I can’t live in—in a constant turmoil of emotion, and that’s the way it would be, the way it always was.”

  “You love me, Miranda.”

  “Yes—yes, I do, and I probably always will, but I have my own identity now. It took me a very long time to establish that identity, Cam, to be able to live my own life, not—not a life wrapped up entirely in you. I can’t turn back now. I can’t throw away everything I’ve worked so hard to build.”

  The anger was there beneath the surface, and he was trying hard to control it. His jaw was tight. A vein throbbed at his temple. His eyes were dark, a line between his brows. He hadn’t understood a word I said, hadn’t even tried to understand, was instead prepared for another explosive scene, and that in itself was proof of what I had said earlier. Life with Cam would be ever tumultuous, filled with exhilarating highs and shattering lows, as before, and I hadn’t the strength to endure it.

  “There’s a bowl of warm water in my dressing room,” I said. “There’s soap, towels and a razor as well. You—you probably want to wash up and shave before you leave.”

  “Miranda—”

  “I’m not going to argue, Cam.” My voice was calm now, cold. “I suggest you save your strength.”

  “Last night meant nothing to you then?”

  I steeled myself. “I had a lovely time,” I said.

  He looked at me for a long moment, wounded, wanting to strike back, and then he moved past me without a word and stepped into the dressing room and closed the door. Silver yellow light flooded the room now. I stood very still, willing the emotions away, refusing to let them take hold. There was a commotion downstairs. I frowned, listening. A few minutes passed and then there were footsteps in the hall outside and a knock on my bedroom door. I opened it. Ned stood in the hall in neatly brushed black uniform and white silk neckcloth. His expression was unperturbed, but I could sense a contained excitement.

  “What—what is it, Ned?”

  “I’m afraid it’s Ramsey, Lady M. He’s waiting on the front steps with seven men, determined to search the house. The house, incidentally, is completely surrounded. His whole force is out there.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ve put him off for a while. I told him Lord M. would have to grant permission, that he would be returning within the hour. Ramsey agreed to wait, most reluctantly, I might add. I’ve taken the liberty of sending a carriage for Lord M.”

  “Douglas has his horse. He won’t need—”

  “I’m fully aware of that,” Ned said. “I have a plan, Lady M.”

  “You—you know?”

  “I saw you bringing him upstairs last night. I have no great love for redcoats, Lady M., no great love for the Hanovers, either, for that matter, Cumberland, in particular. If you’ll allow me, I—uh—I think I might arrange things to your satisfaction.”

  “Ned—”

  “There’s a tunnel, Lady M., a secret tunnel. Lord M. doesn’t even know about it. It came in very handy during the late civil conflict. The Mowreys were ardent loyalists, you know, and Cornwall was overrun with Roundheads. There’s also a priest’s hole behind a secret panel in the east wing, but I don’t believe we’ll be needing that. Better to get him out of the house as soon as possible.”

  There was a faint spark of excitement in those dark brown eyes, but his voice was perfectly flat. He might have been discussing the breakfast menu. Once again his strength gave strength to me, and his calm helped me to remain calm. I took a deep breath and forced back the panic.

  “The tunnel is in the wine cellar, behind a rack. It’s quite long, leads to an abandoned tin mine half a mile from here. The carriage will be waiting there. Mr. Gordon and I will drive to a fishing village fifteen miles up the coast where I have a good friend. He has a big boat, certainly big enough to cross the Channel. I believe he’s done it quite a number of times, in fact, not always legally, I fear.”

  “Thank God for you, Ned. Thank God for you.”

  “I thought we might plan a—uh—little diversion for Captain Ramsey to put him off the scent. You know young Tim, of course.”

  “The new footman you hired last week?”

  “An able lad—a second cousin of mine, I may as well confess it, but he needed a job and I’ve always had a soft spot for his mother. The important point is—he’s a stranger to these parts, hasn’t even been down to the village yet, and he’s extremely tall and lean and has an unruly mop of pitch black hair. He’s only nineteen, but he looks older.”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting we—” I shook my head. “I couldn’t permit you to expose him to—”

  “There’ll be no danger involved. As you know, a coach leaves the inn at nine o’clock. Young Tim will leave the house on an errand, wearing his uniform, everything above suspicion. He’ll walk right past the soldiers, and once he’s clear of the house he’ll remove his uniform, under which he’ll be wearing Gordon’s clothes. He’ll continue to the village, purchase a ticket to Dover and, at the proper time, Ramsey will receive word that a tall black-haired chap fitting Gordon’s
description has taken the coach to Dover and they’ll be off in hot pursuit.”

  “And when they overtake it?”

  “They won’t. It’s a very fast coach. My man in the village won’t bring word for at least four hours. Ramsey’ll go to the inn, confirm the report and take off at a fast gallop, taking his men with him. Young Tim will idle away a day in Dover, an innocent country youth, and return-in his own good time.”

  “I don’t know, Ned. It’s—”

  “I suggest you leave everything to me, Lady M.,” he said, and his voice was firm. “I’ve had a—uh—certain amount of experience in these things. If you’ll give me the gentleman’s clothes, I’ll take them down to Tim and bring some of Lord M.’s garments for your friend.”

  I hesitated only a moment, then picked up Cam’s clothes and gave them to Ned. He nodded politely and ambled nonchalantly down the hall. I closed the door, turning to find Cam standing in the doorway of the dressing room, freshly shaven, hair neatly brushed, as cool and unperturbed as Ned had been.

  “You heard?” I asked.

  “I heard.”

  “The house is surrounded, Cam. The soldiers—”

  “I heard, Miranda,” he said sharply. “Hysterics aren’t going to help.”

  “I’m not hysterical. Not in the least. Oh, God, I knew this was going to happen. We’ve got to get you out of here, Cam. Oh, God. You should never have come. You should never have risked it.”

  “How trustworthy is this servant of yours?”

  “I’d trust him with my life.”

  “Then I suppose I’ll have to trust him with mine,” he said calmly.

  Standing there in the brilliant silver-yellow sunlight in my brother’s dressing robe, the light burnishing his sleek black hair, he looked at me without emotion, his manner icy and remote. He had been deeply hurt and he had retreated behind that invisible wall and it was just as well, I thought, just as well. There was so much more I wanted to say, but words would be futile now. Cam went back into the dressing room, and Ned returned a few minutes later with my brother’s maroon frock coat and breeches and other garments. I was so tense I couldn’t stand still, couldn’t sit down, couldn’t bear another moment of inactivity. I took Cam’s dirty boots and carried them downstairs and cleaned and polished them myself, scandalizing the footman who brought me brush and polish.