by Brenda Joyce
“Easy, John,” Bragg said, smacking his shoulder. “She’s in one piece,” he said significantly.
John shot him a look.
“We had a bit of trouble, which I’ll tell you about over a whiskey, while Miranda bathes.” He kept his hand warningly on his friend’s shoulder.
John turned his full attention to Miranda. “Are you all right?” His voice resonated with genuine concern.
Miranda flushed, casting her eyes down. “Yes. I’m glad to meet you, sir.” She held out her hand and raised her eyes to his.
He smiled. Then, still taut with worry, he took her hand and kissed it. “Miranda, no ‘sirs,’ please. It’s John—we’re not formal over here.” He searched her face.
Miranda lowered her gaze, incredibly shy and embarrassed. “I’m so sorry…I wish to apologize for my dress…”
“There’s no need,” John cried. “Good God, I’m so glad to see you, I’m trying to stop myself from giving you the best hug you ever had! You must be tired and hungry! Bianca!” he shouted.
“A bath,” Miranda murmured, averting her gaze. She glanced at Bragg, who was studying her intently.
“Of course,” John said.
A young, voluptuous Mexican woman appeared. “Señor?”
“Send up bathwater to Miranda’s room. And anything else she needs. And tell Elena, if she doesn’t already know, that my fiancée and Derek are here. Tell her to fix up the best feast she can on such short notice.” He turned back to Miranda, smiling.
Bianca disappeared. Miranda felt doubly awkward in the silence that ensued, especially because both men were now studying her so avidly.
“I’m being rude,” John said. “Come, let me take you up to your room.” He gestured with his hand. Unsure, Miranda followed him. “Derek, you know where the redeye is.”
They went up a curving stairway off the foyer, pine-planked like all the floors and walls in the house. The hallway had six doors leading from it, and John opened the second one on the left. “I know it’s not much,” he said, “compared to England.”
Miranda gasped. The room was a beautiful, sumptuous haven completely unexpected amid the casual rough-hewn style of the rest of the house. The four-poster bed was canopied in beige muslin striped with pink, matching the coverlet, shams, and dust ruffle. The curtains were a dusty rose silk. There was a stone hearth, with a plush, brightly upholstered chair set before it. The bureau and wardrobe were mahogany—European—and they gleamed from many coats of wax. There was a mirror above the bureau. A Chinese screen stood to the side of the fireplace, undoubtedly hiding a tub and chamber pot. A thick Persian rug in a cherry pink covered the entire floor.
Miranda had seen much finer furnishings, even in her father’s home. But she had spent most of her life in the stark convent, and she knew the trouble John had taken to provide her with this touch of home. Tears of gratitude came to her eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly, “thank you so much.”
John beamed. “I’ve been planning on this all year. I didn’t want to hope too much, not after your father said you were too young. I also…well, look.” He opened the armoire. It was half full.
Miranda’s surprise showed. “But you must have expected that I’d have a trousseau! I lost some of it on the way here, but the rest is still in Natchez.”
“I just want to make you happy,” he said, then flushed. “Elena is real good with a needle, and even Bianca’s not bad. These things are all small, but you’re even smaller than I thought.”
“Thank you.” Miranda had been wondering what she was going to do about clothes. Then she noticed the door to her right.
John followed her gaze. “That’s my room.”
She turned crimson.
“You come on down when you feel like it. If you want to nap, why, go right ahead. If you’re hungry, or you want anything, just ask Bianca. Or me.”
After he left, Miranda dropped weakly into the chair in front of the hearth. She was so relieved—he was kind.
Chapter 23
Bragg poured himself another brandy, sipping this one. The living room was large and sparsely furnished, with only a sofa, two chairs, and a footstool. A huge stone hearth dominated the room. Bragg imagined that Miranda would enjoy adding her own touch. He knew John would be only too glad to give her the moon.
He looked up at the woman who had appeared in the doorway and realized vaguely that she must be Bianca. He hadn’t paid attention to her before, but he knew Elena, and this was someone new. She smiled at him in a very inviting way. “Señor? Is there anything I can get for you?”
He turned his attention to her for the first time, briefly wondering why John had seen the need to hire another servant. She had curly, almost wiry, shoulder-length hair, and big, black eyes. She was no beauty, but she had a great body—big, full breasts, a small waist, round hips. Bragg smiled lazily, knowing she would like him to bed her. “Not right now. Maybe later.” He stroked her insolently with his eyes, enjoying the teasing sway of her hips as she left. He wondered what Miranda was thinking, and how she was holding up.
John appeared, looking very grim. He closed the door behind him. “What in hell happened?”
Bragg doffed his own glass and poured John a hefty snifter. “Drink this. You’re going to need it.”
John downed half in one gulp. He waited anxiously.
Bragg told him about Chavez.
“Goddammit!” John cried, interrupting him as Bragg explained how he’d decoyed the Comanche and ridden back to Welsh’s camp, to find Welsh and Lady Holcombe dead—and Miranda gone.
“Take it easy,” Bragg said softly, and he finished the tale.
“The son of a bitch! Did he rape her?”
“John, I’m pretty sure he didn’t.”
“What in hell does that mean?”
“Your fiancée is about the most sheltered woman I’ve ever met. I had to explain what rape was, quite literally, and from what she said, he didn’t rape her. He touched her, though—intimately, I’d say.” Bragg frowned. “She was in shock when I rescued her. Too much so even to talk. The next day she came apart. She seems fine now. John—she’s real innocent where men are concerned, even now. I just think you should know that.”
John covered his face with his hands. “I’ll kill that son of a bitch, if he’s not dead already.”
“Leave that to me, John,” Bragg said, swiftly downing the rest of the brandy. “It’s between me and him.” He didn’t relish what he was going to tell John next.
“Poor Miranda,” John groaned. “God, you can tell by just looking at her how sweet and innocent she is—it kills me to think of that monster touching her!”
Bragg was silent.
“I owe you,” John said heavily, looking up.
“I didn’t do a very good job of protecting her,” Bragg said quietly, evenly.
“Derek, you’re the toughest man I know when it comes to living Texas-style. No man could have done better.”
“I kissed her, John,” Derek said, almost casually. “Twice.”
John stared.
“Both times were an accident,” Bragg said.
John roared, lunging to his feet. He grabbed Bragg by his shirt and lifted him up out of his seat. Bragg didn’t resist. “It was—” he began, then John punched him in the jaw.
Bragg hadn’t intended to duck, or fight, but he turned his face reflexively as he saw the powerful fist coming, deflecting the blow and saving himself a broken jaw. As it was, the blow sent him flying backwards over the chair, and he landed on his back on the floor.
“You rutting bastard,” John shouted, kicking the chair aside as if it were made of paper. He reached down, yanked Bragg up, and hit him again, this time in the stomach. Bragg grunted, but still didn’t defend himself.
“An accident,” he managed, gasping.
John yanked him up by his shirt, and threw him against the wall, hard. Bragg saw stars, his stomach and face throbbing, and he slid down the wall to a sitting position.
John roared inarticulately and spun away. He limped back and forth as Bragg moaned. “Son of a bitch,” John spat out. Picking up the decanter of brandy, he threw the contents into Bragg’s face.
Bragg sputtered and coughed and fought his dizziness. He hurt, but he’d hurt worse. He opened his eyes, taking a second to focus. Eventually the room righted itself. He struggled to an upright position. “I’m sorry, John, but it wasn’t anything.”
“If I didn’t owe you my life twice over,” John said, standing with his legs braced, “I’d kill you.”
“You do owe me,” Bragg agreed, not attempting to stand.
“How could you do it!”
“I told you, dammit, it was an accident!” Quickly, sparing details, he told John how he’d found Miranda in his arms by the pond, and how he’d kissed her when they’d been astride together. “I’m a man, John, and being forced so close to her…her being so beautiful…it wasn’t thought out. Hell—put yourself in my place!”
John sat down, spent. “Did she kiss you back?”
Bragg struggled to his feet. “The woman was a board, John, better yet, a block of ice. She smacked me, in fact.” Bragg had forgotten about that, but he knew it would mollify John. He was right. John smiled.
“I guess I’m not going to be the best man at your wedding anymore,” Bragg said, trying not to sound as hopeful as he felt.
John looked at him darkly. He thought about it. “No, you’re not getting out of that, my friend. We’ve been through too much together for me to hold a kiss against you.” He rose and limped out.
“Shit,” Bragg said.
Chapter 24
Bragg sank deeper into the tub, thoroughly relaxed, and became aware of the wet, somewhat fleshy woman in his arms. He couldn’t help comparing her to Miranda. He couldn’t help wishing that she was Miranda—as traitorous as that thought was. He patted Bianca’s buttock, giving a little push with his hip. “Tub’s a bit cramped,” he said.
She stirred and glanced at him.
He smiled charmingly, kissed her briefly, and stroked her back. “Be a good girl, Bianca, would you? I’m a bit sore from your boss’s right hook.”
“I’m sorry, señor,” Bianca said. She had brought him the compresses, so she knew what had happened. She climbed out of the tub. Her large breasts were hard-tipped and streaming with water. She glanced at him archly as she picked up her clothes, giving him an enticing view of her full bottom. Bragg ignored it.
“Can you wash these, Bianca?” he asked as he continued to soak. He glanced at his dirty buckskins.
Bianca frowned, slipping on her petticoat, her breasts dangling. “Certainly, señor.” She smiled, eyes black, her interest evident.
“Use flour,” Bragg said, taking a sip of the brandy, “so they won’t be wet tomorrow. Could you bring me a change of clothes from John, too?” He flashed her a coaxing smile.
“Okay.” She adjusted her blouse and pulled up her skirt, glancing at the bed.
He knew what she wanted, but he’d had enough. “A little later,” he told her pleasantly, ignoring her frown. He felt relieved when she left with his buckskins, but he didn’t feel sated. Not in the least. He felt empty, with a vague yearning…and he was perturbed that Miranda was still on his mind.
He was lusting after her. There was just no denying it to himself anymore. He didn’t like it one bit.
Supper ruined any sense of well-being he had regained. Miranda appeared in a blazing yellow silk gown, her hair pulled back with a matching ribbon, breathtakingly lovely. She was shy, demure, every bit the unblemished, innocent young lady. John sat at the head of the oak trestle table in the dining room, putting Miranda on his right and Bragg on his left. He was openly besotted, and it irritated Bragg that his friend could act the lovestruck fool, drooling over her every word while Bragg had to sit back and play the casual observer. But when, by chance, she raised her eyes and their gazes met, it was stabbingly sweet. And when John reached out and covered her small hand with his own, Bragg felt red-hot jealousy searing through him.
The meal couldn’t end soon enough for Bragg. When they all stood up, he nodded a cool, polite good-night at Miranda, and headed into John’s study, pouring himself another brandy. He had been imbibing steadily since he’d arrived, but he felt, unfortunately, stone-cold sober. He was not surprised when he heard John’s footsteps. He was about to pour his friend a drink when John stopped him.
“No, don’t.” He smiled. “I’m afraid I won’t be joining you, Derek. Sorry.” The smile broadened. “I’m going to take my fiancée for a stroll in the moonlight.”
Bragg nodded, watching him disappear, and wondered if his mood could possibly get worse.
Chapter 25
They discussed the wedding the next morning. John was kind, and he understood all she had gone through, but she was living in his house now, chaperoned only by the help, and he was eager to marry her. Miranda understood. He confessed openly that he’d been in love with her ever since he’d seen her portrait two years ago, but he didn’t want to press her. He offered to wait a few weeks, to give her a chance to get accustomed to things.
Miranda thought he was being very kind, and they set the date for three weeks hence, in February. He squeezed her hand affectionately, then told her she should rest and regain her strength. He was about to leave when Miranda called out.
“John, will we be going to Mass soon?”
He hesitated, then came back over to her. “I can take you in a few days.”
She was immensely relieved.
“Miranda? Did your father explain to you—about me?”
She was completely mystified. “I don’t know what you mean.”
John sighed. “I am a Roman Catholic, but only in name. I don’t practice.”
Miranda was stunned. “I don’t understand.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “I was raised as a Protestant, but I had to become a Roman Catholic and a Mexican citizen in ’25 to get title to my land. The Mexican government didn’t ask us to practice; they told us we could still hold our old beliefs. Everyone did it. And I’m doubly glad now, because it makes marriage between us possible.”
“Oh,” was all she said.
“I’ll come to Mass with you,” John said suddenly.
Tears almost welled up in Miranda’s eyes. He was more kind and thoughtful than she could ever have hoped. He promised they would go to Mass in San Antonio in a few days. When Miranda asked what her duties were, he told her she could do whatever she liked. She could oversee the servants, or she could let Elena continue to do so. She was amazed at his eagerness to please her.
That evening Miranda was dismayed when she sat down for supper and there was no place set for Bragg. “Isn’t Mr. Bragg joining us?”
“He left,” John told her, helping himself to a potato swimming in a thick, unappetizing gravy.
Miranda was shocked. Her face fell, although she didn’t know how transparent her expression was. He had left without saying goodbye! Her heart was thudding painfully, achingly. How could he have left without saying goodbye? She was very hurt.
John studied her. “You look upset.” His voice was quiet.
She blinked back tears. “I’m—disappointed.”
“You like him.” It was a flat statement.
She turned her brilliant violet gaze upon him. “He was my friend…I trusted him.”
“But I’m your friend,” John said, frowning.
Miranda realized how badly it sounded, how it must look. “I just mean I’m very alone right now. We became friends because circumstance threw us together. I have no one. I wish Aunt Elizabeth were here!” She hadn’t meant to become distraught.
“I understand,” John said, although he still looked displeased.
Miranda began to dread every day that passed, every day that brought her closer and closer to her wedding. It wasn’t that she didn’t like John. Her father had chosen well—he was a big, gentle, tender man. But…she knew he w
ould touch her after they had married, and the thought disturbed her greatly. She had a pretty good idea now of what men did to women sexually, for Bragg had explained it well. She grew ill with fear when she thought that John would do what Bragg had described to her.
He didn’t kiss her until the week of the wedding. She allowed him the kiss, even though it was improper—but then her whole life had been improper since the day she had set out from Natchez with Bragg. She kept her mouth purposefully closed. He only held her arms lightly, but his mouth was open and wet, the kiss becoming harder and harder. She could feel his urgency, and he trembled when he drew away. “I love you so much,” he said hoarsely, stroking her hair. She could only give him a tremulous smile.
Sometimes she had nightmares. There was no one to turn to in the night when she awoke bathed in sweat, a scream on her lips. She remembered when Bragg had been there to comfort her. The dreams were always about Chavez holding her down and hurting her with his rough hands, or of her aunt’s murder. They were awful, horrifying, and she would force herself to stay awake afterward, afraid she’d dream the same dream again.
Miranda began to recall locked-away memories of her father. She remembered him hurting her mother that one dark day in his study. She hadn’t known what he was doing to her then, but she knew now. He had been about to rape her. She remembered his brutality, and how her mother had fought him and wept. She thought of Chavez. She grew more and more frightened thinking of her own wedding night, and all the nights to follow.
One night she had a different kind of dream. At first it was silly. She and Bragg were picnicking in an English park, she dressed like a lady, he in his crude buckskins. But they laughed, and his voice was warm and rich and slightly teasing. He smiled at her, his eyes golden, and she felt so secure—so warm and safe. Then his topaz eyes started glittering, and suddenly all she saw were his eyes. They became brighter and hotter, until they had that strange, hungry look. Then the dream became different—threatening but exciting. She was suddenly naked in his arms, and he was kissing her the way he’d kissed her before, his mouth hot and moist. Soft. She could feel his body, hard and firm on top of her. When she woke up her heart was beating wildly, and her thighs were cramped and aching. The dream and her physical reaction to it shamed her no end. She couldn’t believe that she, Miranda, had had such a dream.