by Brenda Joyce
Miranda trembled in his arms.
Suddenly he realized exactly what was happening. Miranda was in his arms. She was clad in only a chemise and petticoat. Her breasts were small, softly rounded, and beautiful, and her pink nipples begged his mouth to touch them. Her hair had come loose; it flowed in gleaming black waves to her small, rounded hips. Her lips were parted, and she was staring at him with the same shocked awareness of their compromising position.
He could no longer think. The hand that was on her shoulder slid up to the back of her neck, wrapping itself on a thick strand of hair, holding her head immobile. He lowered his face. Her body went rigid. His lips brushed hers, then again and again, softly, delicately. She pressed her lips tightly together and wouldn’t open them, even when his tongue teased their joining. He held her crushed against him in such a way that she couldn’t bring up her hands to pry him away. He pulled at her mouth. His tongue traced its outline. His breathing became harsh and ragged. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman.
She suddenly, furiously, began to struggle.
He released her abruptly, so abruptly that he dropped her onto the damp grass while he sat back on his heels, his blood racing furiously. She scooted out of his reach, giving him the tempting view of her wet petticoat clinging to a round, delectable behind. He stood up slowly, exhaling. She was struggling into her dress, and he heard fabric rip.
He reached out and took her wrist, stopping her frantic movements—in fact, she froze at his touch. “Relax,” he said raggedly. “I won’t hurt you.” He dropped his hand, glancing at her body one last time.
He was about to avert his gaze when he saw her hand flying through the air, and he caught it before she could strike his face. She was panting. Her eyes were black with fury. Flags of color marked her cheeks, and her breasts heaved. His grip tightened and he started to jerk her toward him, following old habit and reflex. Instead, he collected himself, reminding himself who and what she was. He threw her away from him. Miranda stumbled and tripped and went down on her hands and knees. “I’m sorry,” he said, not realizing that he looked anything but sorry. In fact, he looked thunderous with rage.
Miranda pulled up her dress, shaking. “You animal! Cochon! How dare you! I won’t—I won’t travel another day with you! Mon Dieu!” Her voice broke and tears welled up in her eyes.
“For crissakes!” Bragg was furious at his lack of control. How had it happened? “Don’t be a twit!” He was shouting, and he lowered his voice. All he needed right now was for Miranda’s aunt to come marching down here with a lecture.
“How could John send you?” she said with a sob. “How could he put me in the company of a savage like you? How?”
“Grow up, Miranda! Don’t tell me you’ve never been kissed before.” He watched as she buttoned her blouse, her fingers clumsy and trembling. She stopped and stared at him in disbelief. He must have known she’d never been kissed before—she’d been as stiff and unyielding as a board, her mouth all but glued together.
“Never!” She was horrified that he could think anything else.
Bragg opened his mouth to apologize, but only a sound of disgust came out.
“We will find a new guide in Nacogdoches,” Miranda declared.
“Oh no you won’t,” Bragg warned, his expression becoming dangerous.
Miranda backed away. “Oh yes! After I tell my aunt what—”
He grabbed her and shook her, not meaning to hurt her, and when she whimpered he wanted to kick himself. She was so fragile! “You listen to me,” he said in a low voice, his eyes blazing, releasing her. “I gave John my word I’d see you safe and unharmed to his ranch and, goddammit, I will.”
“Safe?” her eyes were incredulous. “Safe? You call kissing me returning me safe and unharmed?”
Bragg clenched his jaw. “I’m taking you all the way to San Antonio, Miranda, and that’s that.” Their gazes locked. “No matter what you and your aunt want. If you like, I’ll hogtie you both for the rest of the trip.”
Miranda paled. “You brute!”
Bragg gave a smile that was close to a sneer. She turned and fled back toward the camp. Bragg picked up the items she’d left behind, cursing. He kicked a tree. So much for their talk. She was more frightened and disgusted with him than ever.
Chapter 9
Miranda felt ill again, actually feverish. There was a warm flush engulfing her whole body, and her heart still fluttered painfully. She glanced at her aunt. Praise God, she was asleep! Miranda was afraid her face might give away her agitation, and she did not want to answer her aunt’s prying questions.
Bragg had kissed her! Her face burned even more. She lay on her bedroll and hugged herself. Dear God! Was she ruined? Should she tell John? Would he send her home in disgrace? She sat up abruptly.
If John knew that Bragg had held her half naked and kissed her, he would surely send her home. Her eyes sparkled and she almost laughed aloud in glee. Home! Oh, how much she wanted to go home, to get away from all this—these strange, barbaric men in a wild, untamed land. It was a wonderful idea.
Miranda knew she was a good girl—mostly—for Bragg’s kiss had repulsed and terrified her. That was the only explanation for the way her heart had threatened to burst from her chest at his touch. How could that man have touched her? How could her fiancé have sent him, a complete beast, with no control over his baser instincts, to escort her to his home? She didn’t understand it. What if John was no better than Bragg?
It was a bit later when Bragg had the audacity to call to her from outside the tent and tell her their supper was ready. She bit her lip, wanting to shout back that she wasn’t hungry, but she didn’t want anyone, especially her aunt, to know what had happened. Her aunt would tell her it was all her fault for going to bathe in a pond, in public, practically in front of a man. No, she couldn’t tell Elizabeth. She didn’t dare.
Miranda ducked out of the tent cautiously, feeling his burning gaze upon her. Why was he always looking at her in that strange, hungry way—the way a starving child looks at a piece of cake? She kept her lashes lowered, filled two plates, and without looking at anyone disappeared back into the tent. She did not step out again that night, dreading his gaze, resolving to wait to take care of her needs until the next morning.
Because of her resolution, Miranda was up at dawn, before any wakeup call, and slipped out of the tent. Above the prairie, the sky was a peachy pink, turning the brown grass golden. In the distance, jagged, mauve mountains crested a darker sky. Miranda took a moment to inhale the sweet, morning-fresh scent of the raw land, enjoying the majestic sunrise. Then she glanced around. Fortunately there was no sign of Welsh or Bragg, and she assumed that the men were taking care of their own needs. The team was still hobbled, their packed gear lying unloaded on the ground. The coffee was heating, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. What she wouldn’t give for a bit of tea!
Miranda hesitated, wanting to wash at the pond, when Welsh appeared from the opposite direction, startling her. Surely by now Bragg had finished washing up, too—if that was what he was doing, or maybe he had been with Welsh. She headed down the embankment.
The sun gave forth a sudden burst of light as it crested higher, suddenly warming the cool morning, brightening the dawn to day. Miranda smiled and was even more pleased when she found the pond unoccupied. She washed her hands and face, brushed her teeth, and was about to stand when she heard a foul curse and was yanked up by her hastily braided hair.
“You never leave camp without my permission!” Bragg roared.
Miranda’s heart was pounding in fear. “You’re hurting me!”
“Good!” he shouted, deafening her. He was still holding her braid cruelly, and now an iron hand gripped her shoulder. He shook her roughly. “Foolish twit!”
“Let go of me,” Miranda managed, not knowing where the words of bravery, spoken so calmly, came from. In fact she was deathly afraid that he was going to beat her.
Bragg must have seen th
e terror in her eyes. He suddenly released her, and she wheeled abruptly and fled. She was brought up short, however, after only three steps. This time he had grabbed her wrist, and he whipped her around to face him. She could see that he was fiercely fighting back his rage. “Stand still,” he finally said, his nostrils and mouth pinched and white.
Miranda froze obediently. She had a sudden vision of her father striking her mother, and she flinched. It made his eyes grow darker. “Please,” she whispered.
“We’re in Comanche territory,” he said, in a cold, hard voice. “Do you know what the Comanche do to pretty white women like you?”
Miranda shook her head mutely.
“They strip you naked,” he said cruelly. “All the braves who want to take their pleasure with you do—touching you, hurting you, raping you.” She was staring at him, transfixed with terror. “Then, if you’re lucky, someone, like John, pays a ransom, and you’re released.” Bragg’s expression was murderous. He smiled grimly. “Of course, if you’re not lucky, a Comanche decides to make you his second or third wife.”
His eyes bored into hers. “A Comanche woman is treated like a dog. She’s taken when her husband feels like it, beaten on whim, worked like oxen. A second or third wife doesn’t even have the protection that a first wife enjoys. She gets beaten continually by the first wife—who is cruel because she’s jealous—as well as by her husband.”
Miranda couldn’t breathe.
“Of course, if you’re really lucky, they sell you south of the border. Do you know what happens then?”
She could hear her own heart suddenly, pounding like a drum.
“You spend your time on your back—in a brothel. You become a whore.”
Miranda swayed, fighting to clear her head of the strange light-headedness that had descended. A whore…a third wife…many braves…
“Until we reach John’s ranch, you never go anywhere without my presence. Is that clear?”
His voice was coming from far away. The ground seemed to be coming up at her. Finally, a welcoming blackness enveloped her.
Chapter 10
Bragg caught her just before her head hit the ground.
“Miranda!” His anger had fled. He shook her face and slapped her gently. Dammit! He had scared the little chit into a faint! He felt overwhelmed with guilt and anger at himself—he couldn’t believe she had actually fainted. He dabbed cool water on her face, and she moaned, her lashes fluttering.
“Are you all right?” he asked hoarsely, wondering why his heart was pounding so hard.
Miranda looked at him blankly, vaguely, and then fear welled up in her violet eyes, and she stared at him with frozen terror.
He wanted to stroke her hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Miranda,” he said gruffly, and almost placed his hand in her thick tresses. “But you need my permission to go anywhere, is that understood?” He was brusque to hide his relief, his agitation, and another confusing, unfamiliar feeling—fear. Miranda nodded mutely.
“Can you stand?” She was still staring at him, and he remembered how she had flinched at his rage, as if he were going to hit her. Had she really thought that? Only a husband could hit a woman, for then it was his right, whether he was white or Apache. However, he knew John would never hit Miranda—it wasn’t in his nature. Absurdly, that thought pleased him. He helped her to her feet.
Nacogdoches was only a few hours away, but Bragg scouted ahead anyway, trying not to think about Miranda, that girl-woman. It was hard not to. He had had a sleepless night last night, stiff with desire for her—his blood brother’s fiancée. It was an unacceptable situation. He seemed to have no control over his lust for her, but he had promised himself that he would never touch her again, and he wouldn’t. Miranda belonged to John. In all fairness to himself, the kiss had been an accident. What virile man could have stopped himself from kissing a woman clad only in wet underclothes, especially when that woman was as beautiful as Miranda, and was suddenly, unexpectedly, in his arms?
In an effort to quell his attraction for her, he reminded himself that she was not his type at all. He remembered his dead wife. She’d been slender when he had married her, yet he had always preferred women with ripe, voluptuous figures. Like Louise, who had breasts a man could bury his face in forever. She was soft and accommodating. No, Miranda was not his type at all.
Nacogdoches had always been a rough town, and it was even more so since Texas had gained independence from Mexico in ’36. There were no longer Mexican Rurales to keep peace, and although the Texans had elected a sheriff, violence ran rampant in the town, outlaws and drifters competing with immigrants, and the sheriff could not keep the peace. Because it was high noon when they rode in, Bragg secured them lodging at one of the more reputable establishments. He was glad they had only a half day of travel that day. He was worried about Lady Holcombe, who was thinner than when the trip had begun, pale and wan. She needed a bed, food, and rest.
“There is nothing to see in this town,” Bragg announced to the ladies as they stood in the front room. The common room was already half full with patrons, and Bragg immediately saw two hard, dangerous men. He instinctively stepped closer to Miranda.
“What do you mean, Captain Bragg?” Miranda met his eyes briefly, innocently.
“This is a hard town. Dangerous men, outlaws, ride through. I want both of you to keep to your rooms until we leave tomorrow.” He settled an unflinching gaze on her. “Understand?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, taking Miranda’s hand.
“Anything you need—food, drink, bathwater—have brought up.” Bragg stared at Miranda again. Then he glanced at the common room and immediately met a dark gaze in a shadowy, bearded face. The man looked from him to Miranda with open lust. Bragg restrained the urge to beat the man to a pulp for his insolence. He unconsciously noted that the man was as tall as he, brawny, and exuded a reckless, lawless confidence. He took Miranda’s elbow, ignoring her gasp, and said, “I’ll escort you upstairs…now.”
Unfortunately, the stairs to the rooms were on the other side of the common room, and there was no way to approach them except by entering that male domain. They had taken no more than three steps within when a hush fell over the room, and every eye turned to Miranda. Bragg felt her tremble beneath his hand.
There were only a dozen men in the room, but another man stood out. A tall, dark, ruggedly handsome Mexican, possibly a Comanchero, caught Bragg’s attention. As with the dark, bearded man, the Mexican was also a worthy opponent—possibly trouble. The Mexican, clad in buckskins like everyone else, devoured Miranda with cold, black eyes.
They had started up the stairs when the room began to buzz excitedly.
“Did you ever see anything like that?” someone said hoarsely.
“What a beauty! What white skin!”
“Did you see her eyes? They’re purple! I saw ’em!”
“She’s skinny.”
“Who cares? With your rod buried deep in her, would you give a damn?” Excited laughter greeted this last remark.
“You wish you could bury your rod in her!”
“She looks like a virgin,” a cool voice commented.
“Who’s the man?”
“Bragg.”
“You think he’s getting it?”
“He’s a Ranger,” someone warned.
Miranda was shaking when Bragg opened the door to the room.
“It’s all right,” he said softly.
Her eyes, wide and filled with horror, held his. Bragg wanted to sweep her against his chest and protect her, but he shrugged off that ridiculous, womanly urge.
“How could you bring us to this place?” Elizabeth gasped, her face flushed with outrage and indignation.
“I told you,” Bragg said coolly, suddenly wondering if it wouldn’t have been better to camp on the trail, “it’s a rough town. I guess I won’t have to remind you to stay in your room?” He quirked a brow.
Miranda turned and fled inside.
&nb
sp; Bragg regarded her aunt soberly. “I’ll be downstairs, and I have the room next to yours. No one will try anything, don’t worry.”
Elizabeth gasped. “Try anything? Good Lord! What do you mean?”
Bragg saw Miranda standing frozen by the window, her face a mask of raw terror. He wanted to kick himself. “Just don’t worry,” he said harshly. “You’ll be safe if you lock the door.” He closed the door and left.
The crowd downstairs was worse than he had ever seen, and it was just his luck. He had no intention of moving from that common room, he decided, unless it was to sleep outside Miranda’s door.
Chapter 11
Bragg settled himself comfortably at one end of a trestle table, his back to the wall. He met the Mexican’s assessing eyes. The man held his stare for a moment, long enough to show that he was not afraid. Then, smiling slightly, he gazed casually about the room. In that instant, Bragg felt a deep foreboding. The man looked like a half-breed, and if he was, he was a deadly foe. His glance moved to the brawny, bearded man, who was studying Bragg openly, also unperturbed. He suddenly smiled, said something to his companion—a thin, oily blond man—and they both grinned lewdly. Bragg knew who they were talking about, but ignored them.
“Is the beautiful girl your wife?”
Bragg turned to the lanky redheaded man on his left. “Yes,” he said, his eyes sharp.
The man, clad in buckskin pants and a cotton shirt, smiled amiably. “You’re very lucky. She’s a rare beauty.”
Bragg nodded, not smiling. He decided to be pleasant. “Do you know any of these men?”
The man shrugged. “I’ve met a few of them on my travels.”
“You pass through these parts often?”
The redhead nodded. “I’m an impresario,” he said. “The name’s McDermott, Tim McDermott.”