He stood in a swift, jerky motion, and released her hand.
“You deserve a husband and family.”
“I want you, no matter what that means and for however much or little time we have.”
“You shouldn’t.” A bitter smile twisted his lips. Staring into the fire, he said, “I didn’t tell you the details of the family curse. When I die, I can’t pass through the portal of judgment and learn my final fate.”
He laid out an astonishing tale of magic misused, murder centuries past, and a king wrongly blamed. She wouldn’t believe this if anyone else had described it, but she could feel that he was in deadly earnest.
He concluded, “I’ll be trapped in the shadowland Cabot and Jeremy and I crossed to reach Croyland. In the same place we saw in your vision. The land of the damned. Until the end of time.”
The frustration in his soul welled into the connection they shared. “Edmund cursed us all, and my mother never forgave my father for begetting a doomed son.”
No wonder he called such a dreadful burden a curse. How could anyone pass such a thing along? Yet one night’s work had destroyed two young lives and a king’s good name. Some recompense was owed.
In a quiet voice his hard eyes belied, Richard said, “I won’t do that to my son or, through him, to you. I won’t give you cause to despise me.”
“How could I despise you if my own failure to find the proof you need leaves you thus burdened?”
“My mother came to hate my father for the task he laid on me. She died of a winter fever when I was ten. When I was twelve, Grandmère gave me her last letter. In it, she railed against my father for dooming me.”
“Did your father not tell her before they wed?”
“Yes, but they didn’t think it mattered. She was a widow, childless, of a man who had five children by his first wife.”
“She thought she was barren,” Miranda breathed.
“As though that weren’t enough, some men of our line become so obsessed with being unable to end the curse that they go mad. My grandfather shot himself, and my father ... I’ve always wondered whether his death on the battlefield was truly a matter of happenstance.”
That sounded horrible, but it didn’t change her feelings for him. “I’ll take my chances,” she said.
Richard shook his head. “My parents followed their hearts to misery. I can’t let that happen to you. To us.”
“But it need not be the same.”
Frowning, he paced to the hearth. He braced one hand against the mantel and stared into the flames. “Ah, but it must. The sins of the fathers, you know.”
“I don’t believe that.” To keep from holding out her hands to him, she clasped them together. “Somewhere, someday, the scales will balance. It may take the right Mainwaring at the right time and in the right place, but they will. Unless you end the line.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you See that?”
“No.” If only she did. “But I feel it.”
“You wouldn’t risk your son’s soul,” he said slowly.
“Not his soul. A part of his future, perhaps, but not his soul. His would stand in no more danger of eternal condemnation than yours. And he might save all the rest of you—unless we do it first. I promise you, I will never stop trying.”
Softly, she said, “If we’re able to restore the true course of events, what we feel may not matter anyway. But if it does, what right have we, if we should be blessed with a son, to decide he would rather not be born?”
Richard’s eyes suddenly blazed, and an answering fire ignited deep within her. She held out her hand to him.
He came to her swiftly. Clasping her hand in both of his, he drew her to her feet and held her fingers to his lips. His eyes hot and intent on hers, he said, “If you’re willing to risk all that, I can’t turn away. For whatever time we have together, I want you as my wife. Will you marry me, Miranda? Marry me and leave the question of children to fate?”
Her heart leaped, and her throat tightened. “Are you certain you want a servant for your countess?”
“Not just any servant.” He pressed a passionate kiss into her palm. “Will you wed me, curse and all?”
A bubble of joy burst inside her. “I will even wed you in the Church of England. Or in a barn, or in a ditch beside the road.”
Laughing, he swept her into his arms for a deep, intoxicating kiss. He carried her to the bed and fell onto it with her, then rolled above her to rain kisses on her face until she laughed and begged him to stop.
The sweet weight of his body pressed down on her. Tender laughter sparkled in his eyes.
She slid her fingers into the thick hair that framed his face and drew his head down for a kiss.
It started gently but soon became hot and eager and deep. His tongue probing inside her mouth sent waves of excitement through her. She stroked his tongue with her own. They rolled onto their sides, and his fingers at her back unlaced her bodice.
He raised his head, his eyes intent. “Let me take this off, love. Let me see you. Touch you.”
“Yes,” she whispered, heart hammering. “If you’ll allow me the same.”
Nervous excitement simmered in her stomach as they peeled away each other’s garments. At last only her shift and his breeches remained. The touches and kisses they exchanged and the fire they roused made undressing a delight she’d never imagined.
In the firelight, his skin turned bronze. The flickering light cast shadows over the planes of his face and body and the curved muscles of his arms as he picked her up and tucked her into the bed.
Sliding in beside her, he said, “Are you nervous, sweet? Thousands of men and women before us have done this, and all lived to tell the tale. We can wait, though, if you’d rather.”
“I wouldn’t.” She ran her palm over his shoulder, down his muscular chest with its mat of soft, dark hair. “I trust you, Richard.” Besides, everything could change by morning.
His eyes heated, and he cupped her breast, thumbing the nipple. Miranda gasped as her body arched. Imitating him, she rubbed her thumb over his nipple. The muscles in his chest tensed. His eyes closed. He groaned, and his pleasure flashed into her.
He tugged her hand down to the buttons on his breeches. When she fumbled with them, he helped her. His shaft sprang free, and she touched it tentatively with one finger.
Richard made a choked sound as he placed his hand over hers and showed her what he liked. His pleasure spread through her like fire in a tinder box and kindled a matching flame deep within her. She kissed the center of his chest. Is this good?
He gasped. Sublime.
He rolled above her, breaking her grip. His weight pressed her into the bed. Through her linen shift, he covered her nipple with his mouth. His warm breath teased the peak.
Gasping with pleasure, wanting more of him, she arched against him. He jerked open the neck of her shift. She had no time to feel shy before his head came down again, toward her other breast. His tongue stroked her like hot, wet velvet. The fire within her became a hollow ache.
As she tangled her fingers in his hair, he touched her between her legs. Shock clamped them together on his hand.
Passion glowed in his eyes. “You’re so soft there, sweetheart. Let me touch you.”
His fingers moved, and wildfire leaped within her. Her thighs relaxed, allowing him a firmer touch. Slowly, he traced the folds of too-sensitive skin, and she quivered in response.
Awash on a flood of shared pleasure, she couldn’t think. He was touching her, and she was touching him, and she needed more. Kissing his shoulders, she caressed his warm, sleek back. “Richard ... ”
“Yes, love.” His shaft pressed against her. Some of the fear came back, but the need was stronger. Slowly, he sank into her. Their joining felt strange—tight, but with a wonderful, growing urgency.
He drew back his hips and thrust. Within her, something tore free. A choked cry escaped her as pain flashed down to her toes.
Richard lay still.
His shoulders had gone hard under her hands, and lines of strain etched his face.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped.
“It’s better now,” she assured him. As the pain faded, a restless need to move rose in her. She lifted her hips, experimenting, and whimpered at the pleasure as he sank deeper.
Richard groaned, thrusting slowly, then faster. Joining her in body and spirit. Soon she was twisting under him. The world narrowed to driving, fiery pleasure. Clutching him, she hovered on the lip of a wave. “Richard,” she gasped.
“I love you.” He thrust hard, then shuddered.
Deep within her, the wave crashed into a wall of rushing light.
When the light faded and the world returned, she and Richard were still joined. His head rested on the pillow by hers, and his thudding heartbeat pounded against her chest. She lay beneath him in a contented, wondering daze.
At last, he raised his head and kissed her. “All right?”
“Oh, indeed.” Miranda smiled at him. His hair had fallen into his eyes. She brushed it back, exulting in her new right to touch him whenever she pleased.
He withdrew from her, leaving her with a strange, bereft feeling as he settled her against his side. She kissed his chest. A thin veil of sweat on his skin shone in the firelight.
They rested together, dozing. Miranda awoke first and so had a chance to look her fill. He was all solid muscle, strength he used to serve what was right. And he was hers.
Tentatively, she stroked his chest. Richard sighed and covered her hand with his.
“More,” he murmured, smiling.
Exploring him with her hands and mouth, she gloried in his eager response.
I want you, he thought. I will always want you.
You have me, she promised as he sank into her warmth. Moving with him, she wrapped her legs around his waist. Always.
Perhaps not, they both knew. The shadowland waited just beyond the horizon. The specter of Wyndon still hovered near them, and they had history yet to put right, a deed that might erase all they had been to each other.
Pushing those worries aside, Miranda arched beneath him. Licked the side of his neck.
Thought vanished. They lost themselves in now.
Chapter 26
The roads had dried, so the coach turned into the gate at Hawkstowe House three days later instead of four. Snuggled against Richard’s side, Miranda said, “I hope your grandmother is up and about by now.” Because Patience sat across from them, she silently added, I hope she won’t mind that we want to marry.
Our grandmother, he corrected, will be delighted. She was sitting up when I scried her this morning. He dropped a kiss on Miranda’s hair. “I’m eager to see her.”
I hope you’re right, on both points.
She gripped his hand more tightly as the coach cleared the entry arch. The courtyard walls gleamed in the setting sun. This was home now. She belonged in this lovely house, in this family with its history and traditions. At Richard’s side, for as long as they might have.
The coach stopped, and a footman opened the door. Richard climbed out, then offered her his hand. Gathering her skirts, she glanced toward the portico. Enderby stood there, his face solemn and his garments black.
Black? Oh, no!
“Miranda?” Richard frowned. “What is it?”
She jumped to the ground. “Oh, pray, let me be wrong.” Skirts in hand, she ran for the steps.
A strangled sound came from Richard. He raced past her. Taking the stairs three at a time, he reached the door in moments. Red-eyed, Enderby looked solemnly up at him, and Miranda’s heart ripped in twain.
An hour later, Miranda sat with Richard and Lucius in the library while Lucius told him of his grandmother’s illness. Richard seemed stunned that his grandmother, the bulwark of his childhood, could be gone.
“She was better this morning,” he repeated.
“Aye, cousin.” Weariness lined Lucius’s thin face. “She broke her fast with a hearty meal and called for her maid to dress her. The maid said she collapsed in mid-sentence.”
He paused, his eyes sad. “I couldn’t rouse her. I did my best.”
“I know you did. I’m grateful.”
Richard should have been here. Miranda bit her lip. He’d never say it, never blame her, but part of him would always wonder if he could have brought about a different outcome.
He caught her hand in a warm grip. Don’t tread that path. If I had it to do over, I would do the same. As she wanted.
“It may be,” Lucius said, “that her heart failed. She had fought for days against the poison. She must’ve been weary.”
“You’re certain it was poison?” Miranda asked.
“The curative herbs took far longer, in much greater doses, than would have been required if she’d merely eaten spoiled food. Jane said she fell ill after eating a sweet cake sent by Lady Vale, but the lady vows she sent no cake.” He shook his head. “Her message sounded distraught.”
“Of course.” Richard slumped in his chair. “Lucius, I thank you for all your care. Where should I send a purse?”
“There’s a baker’s widow and family, name of Tate, in East Cheap who could use it.”
“It will go tonight.”
His eyes solemn, Lucius said, “The Winfield brothers came to me with grave charges against Henry de Vere.”
“The charges are accurate.”
“That’s as may be, but Miranda’s inexperience works against belief in her visions. Henry has many allies, as you know. They’ll argue that the Croyland gravestone shows him doing only what he has advocated, turning these changes to our advantage.”
“That can’t excuse his assault on her.”
Lucius frowned. “Only Miranda may bring that charge.”
“I gladly will,” she said. “He means to shape an England no decent person could want.”
“I believe you,” Lucius said, “and your charge against him is enough for a hearing. After much wrangling on the Council, I’ve had one set for the day after tomorrow. But we cannot scry far enough into the past to see what he changed, nor can we divine his intentions by scrying. On those, it will be your word against his.”
Richard leaned forward. “Everyone present will know who’s telling the truth.”
“That doesn’t mean they’ll accept it. Truth isn’t always the primary choice among us, as it isn’t among the unGifted. Write a statement of your charges, Miranda, and I’ll present it.”
Lucius stood. “I can do no more.”
I can, and I will. Richard’s silent vow echoed in Miranda’s mind. He also rose, and his hand caught hers as she stood.
Lucius glanced from one to the other of them. “If I may be so bold, cousins, am I to offer good wishes?”
Richard slid his arm around her waist. “You’ve keen perceptions, Lucius. Miranda has consented to wed me.”
The older man favored her with a solemn nod. “That’s a very good thing. Something joyous in a time of shared loss. May the Great Mother bless you.”
“Thank you,” Miranda said. The Great Mother?
Lucius worships the old powers. “I’ll see you out,” Richard offered.
“I can find my way.” With a slight bow, Lucius left the room.
When the door closed, Richard stalked to the hearth. “Wyndon murdered her, just as he tried to murder you.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I do know. I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but the girl who served the cake has disappeared. Cook thinks George was bedding her.” Richard snorted. “So much for his vaunted betrothal.”
“Surely he wouldn’t do that to your grandmother.” But Miranda didn’t feel certain at all.
Anger crackled through their bond. “I’d like to think he didn’t know what he was doing. If he did, he’ll rue it.”
“What will you do?”
“What I would’ve done back in Croyland if you’d already been safely home. What must be done.” Pain flashed between them, a
nd he turned solemn eyes to her. “When I do, Miranda ... ” Shaking his head, he caught her against him.
He would try to fix the timeline. If he succeeded, they would lose each other. Her throat tight with unshed tears, she locked her arms around his waist. It’s too soon, Richard.
It will always be too soon. He tipped her chin up.
A footman knocked as he entered. “Captain Winfield and Reverend Winfield,” he said solemnly, then stepped aside.
Richard kissed her quickly. Later, heart of mine.
Cabot and Jeremy hurried into the room. “Richard, Miranda,” Cabot said, “I cannot tell you how sorry I am. She was a grand lady.”
“Wyndon will be sorrier yet,” Richard said. “What have you found about that tombstone?”
“The records are changing,” Jeremy said as they all took seats. “Oliver Cromwell’s son and successor, Richard Cromwell, apparently died of food poisoning in 1655 instead of becoming Lord Protector and ruling England when his father died three years after that.”
“It was his bungling as protector that opened the way for King Charles’s restoration.” Jeremy shook his head. “Food poisoning.”
Like Richard’s grandmother. If not for the poison, her heart would not have failed.
“If there’s no Richard Cromwell to bungle the protectorate, if history changes so that someone competent becomes—became, hellfire!—Lord Protector when Oliver Cromwell died, then there is no Restoration,” Richard said, lacing his fingers through Miranda’s.
“Exactly.” Jeremy poured a glass of sack from the bottle on the table. “I checked the annals for the years around the date on that tombstone. The changes are moving forward in time. The new record contains preliminary moves toward abolishing the laws against witchcraft in 1661.”
Richard’s brows rose. “That would require either lunacy from Parliament or iron control of it.”
“He prorogued Parliament, taking a lesson from Charles I. He does as he will,” Jeremy said. “Or he did, thirteen years ago.”
“Prorogued?” Miranda asked.
“A fancy term for sending them home,” Richard explained. “I would wager he consolidated his power before making open moves. He may have done so for years.”
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