Innocent Fire (15 page)

She eased under the covers, pulling them all the way up to her chin. She was in her own bed, but she could hear her husband moving restlessly in his room next to hers. She shivered, waiting with dread for him to come to her. Outside she could still hear the hearty laughter and conversation of a few staunch revelers, although the din had long since quieted down. She listened to the merrymaking and wondered if maybe John would not come. Maybe he was tired—he had been drinking quite a lot.

She had become ill earlier. The two glasses of champagne had gone right to her head, since she hadn’t eaten, and she had had to run back to the house. She had made it just in time, fortunately, to keep from disgracing herself in front of the guests. Now her head throbbed, and she was perspiring faintly. She was also as sober as the day she was born. Was he coming?

Could she bear his touch?

She would never hurt his feelings by letting him see her distaste for his touch, never. She would not cry out when he hurt her. John was kind and good, and she wanted to please him. She would bear his lovemaking the way a lady should.

She heard the door open and stiffened involuntarily.

“Miranda?” His footstep was already familiar, heavy with his bulk. A match flared.

“Oh no, please,” she begged, twisting away, wanting it to be dark.

“I want to see you,” John murmured. He held the match, and for a moment they could see each other’s faces. He saw her fear and cursed silently, shaking out the match. “All right, dear.”

Miranda took a deep breath, truly grateful that they would do this in the dark. He eased his weight beside her, the bed groaning, and Miranda felt as if she was made of wood. Every fiber of her being froze against her will. He reached out and pulled her into his arms. His body was warm and hard, but not as hard as Bragg’s.

“Darling,” he whispered. He kissed the side of her face, then leaned over her, capturing her mouth with his.

Miranda stayed passive, fighting her urge to resist. Tears gathered hotly beneath her lids. His hand stroked over her body, over her sheer lace gown, from shoulder to hip. It paused on her waist, gentle and trembling.

His sigh was almost a groan. “Miranda, darling, I need you.” He kissed her again, his mouth harder, more demanding. “Open your mouth…please.”

She obeyed, trying not to show the revulsion she felt when his tongue invaded her mouth. She didn’t mind his touching her half as much as this. Her stomach felt ill again.

“I love you,” he said hoarsely. His hand found her breast, and he caressed her gently. “I want to go slow,” he said, kissing her ear, his breath hot on her skin, “but I’ve waited so long…years…”

Miranda wished he would do it and get it over with. He slipped his hand beneath her gown, up her thigh, and she tensed even more, not breathing. He stroked her silken flesh, her hip, and found her breast again. He groaned, then eased the garment over her head before she knew it, and his mouth came down on her nipple, sucking frantically. One of his thighs covered hers, and something hot and hard pressed against her leg.

She fought the tears. She could stand this. If he enjoyed pushing her, sucking her, she could bear it. She hated his tongue in her mouth, though. She didn’t want him to know
and worried that if he kissed her that way again, she might become dangerously nauseated.

She began to relax, wondering how long it would take, wondering if he would do this to her again tomorrow, how often he would want to use her. She detached herself from the man sucking and stroking her, and thought about the beautiful piano. She couldn’t wait to play it. She wondered if she would ever be able to play it for Bragg. She stiffened suddenly when she realized John had shifted his weight onto her completely and had spread her thighs with his own. His manhood pressed against her most vulnerable spot.

She was seized with instinctive fear. “No,” she cried, but his mouth was on hers, ravenously, and his arms were beneath her like steel bands. That hard part of him was thrusting against her, seeking entry, hurting her. It was like a battering ram. The tears rose again.

By luck and instinct, he found the entrance, tested it, and thrust deeply. Miranda screamed as he tore through her tight, dry flesh. She felt as if she was being ripped apart, and tears flooded down her face. She bit her lower lip to keep from crying out again, ashamed and embarrassed that their guests might have heard her scream. He thrust again and again, breathing raggedly, each thrust a shaft of pain, almost unbearable, and then he shuddered and was still. The unbearable fullness inside her disappeared, and he rolled off her.

She turned away, onto her side, weeping silently. Never had she imagined that it would hurt like that.

“God, Miranda,” he said hoarsely, leaning over her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice was anguished, desperate.

She couldn’t answer. She didn’t want him to know she was crying.

“Darling, I didn’t know it would hurt you so much,” he said.

She took a deep breath and summoned all her will. “It’s all right,” she said brokenly. “It’s all right, John.”

“Forgive me,” he said softly, placing one tentative hand on her stiff shoulder. “Please forgive me.”

Miranda took another deep breath, fighting for control. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she whispered.

He lay back down beside her. She stayed curled up in a ball on her side, her back to him. She was still awake some time later when he silently rose and went to his own bed. But the need for crying was over. She was his wife now, in every sense of the word. She was resolved to be the best wife possible, even if she had to go through that experience again and again.

John wanted to make love to his wife, but he was afraid to approach her. His desire had been growing all week, since the wedding night, but he could still remember her scream of pain, and the last thing he wanted to do was to hurt her again. Of course, like any man, he knew it always hurt a virgin the first time. But he had not been prepared for the depth of her pain. He had never had a virgin before—so how could he have known?

John had not had many women. He was a man, and had needs, obviously, but the times he had been with a woman could be counted on both of his hands. Now he wished he had more experience. He knew that ladies did not enjoy it. He had never been with a lady, of course, before Miranda. The whores he had been with were merry and eager, their bodies warm and wet. Miranda had been dry and tight. He knew she had not just disliked their love-making, but hated it. However, she was his wife, she would bear his children, and he knew the second time would not be as bad as the first.

He could not put it off, although every night he felt and saw her fear, anxiety, and apprehension. It dimmed his need and desire for her, but only fractionally. He did not expect her to enjoy their coupling, of course, but he did expect her to accept and not mind it.

Exactly seven days after their wedding night he came to
her bed again. By then, his desire for her was uncontrollable. To his shock, he hurt her again—although her cry of pain was muted, she couldn’t restrain it. And there was blood again. He was frightened.

He knew that wasn’t right, but he didn’t know whom to discuss the situation with. What happened between a man and his wife was never discussed, not even by the couple themselves. Why had she bled again? Even he could feel how dry her passage was. She was so small. Was it possible she was too small for him? He was a big man. He had never compared himself to other men, but he assumed that his manhood was proportionately big, like the rest of his anatomy. Could his wife, being so tiny, be too small for him? Or was she ill? Or was she formed defectively?

He did not know what to do. He loved her so much he couldn’t bear hurting her. Maybe, he hoped, the problem would resolve itself. Maybe over time, the hurt and bleeding would go away. Maybe some women bled twice. Whom could he ask? He wished he had the courage to ask his best friend, who was as experienced with women as he was not. Of course, he could never bring up such a sensitive topic, not even with Derek. He let the days go by, the weeks pass, until he was desperate for her, and so wishful that everything would be all right that he tried again. It was another disaster. How could he put himself inside her when he knew that every thrust was hurting her, tearing her? He was frantic with worry. Although there wasn’t a lot of blood, there was some, and he knew it wasn’t right. Something was definitely wrong. He didn’t know what to do, so he stayed away and did nothing.

Miranda didn’t mind being married. There was plenty to do, and the truth was, she loved her home. Under her tasteful touch, the ranch was becoming a warm and welcoming haven. Some of the furniture came from St. Louis, via New Orleans and Galveston. Some was brought by custom order from the Swedish cabinetmaker in San Antonio. The Persian rugs had come from New York, imported from Europe. Some of the upholstery she did herself, some was done by the German upholsterer in San Felipe. She was working on a large tapestry for John’s study, and, of course, she was always tending her flowers and her vegetable garden.

There was also the supervision of the household, which she took over in stages. Elena welcomed her input, even expected it, and surreptitiously drew her gradually into the running of the house by seeking her out with questions she had been answering herself for years. Did she want the bedding aired? Should Bianca damp-mop the floors? Did she want to mend John’s shirts herself? Could she oversee the ironing? Bianca was so clumsy. Did the menu meet with her approval? Did they need these supplies? The questions were what any servant would ask of the mistress of the household, and Miranda soon became at ease in her role as mistress of John’s house.

She knew they didn’t need Bianca—she and Elena could
have easily run the house alone. But she was also aware that Bianca needed the employment, so she didn’t say anything. Although John was often annoyed when he found Miranda with her delicate hands in hot water, or doing something that could blister them, she softly and subtly protested until she was allowed to resume her tasks. After all, she was no longer an English lady, she was a Texan’s wife. All the other women she had met at her wedding had red, chapped, and callused hands, and she saw no reason why she should be any different.

Sometimes, for no reason, she would look at Bianca and remember her pressing against Bragg. Then a strange, unpleasant feeling would assail her, a painful ache—something like hurt mixed with envy. She always shoved the memory and its accompanying feeling aside. It was not her business.

The piano was her greatest solace, and she played for hours and hours, especially when her heart had a strange heaviness. She would lose herself in her music, playing Mozart and Beethoven with great passion, until she was soaring on the wings of their emotion, not even aware when someone would come and stand quietly, listening, in the doorway.

She dreaded the nights. John had only come to her twice since their wedding night, but neither time had been any better than the first. Since he no longer came, she assumed she had displeased him, and that shamed her, but her relief was greater than her shame. She hated coupling. She knew he knew it, and although she wanted to hide her revulsion, how could she? Every time he entered her it hurt unbearably. Still, she resigned herself to being available to John when he wanted her. After all, one day she would have his children. That thought enchanted her, and almost made their lovemaking worth it.

About a month or so after their wedding, when Miranda came down for dinner, John called her into the library. His eyes shone with love as he looked at her, touching her arm briefly. His gaze was hungry, too, and she knew he would come to her bed again soon. She couldn’t help it; a wave of anxiety overtook her.

“Miranda, I’ve forgotten to tell you, but it’s Eliza
Croft’s birthday next week, and we’re invited to the Crofts’ for the weekend. I hope you want to go.”

Miranda was delighted, even though she didn’t remember who Eliza Croft was. Since their wedding, she had seen no one except John and their help. “Oh, I’d love to! Will there be a lot of people there?” Even as the words came out of her mouth, she wondered if she would see Bragg.

“I’d say so. Eliza will be eighteen. That’s a big one.” He smiled at her fondly. “The celebration will go on all weekend. A real Texas barbecue. We’ll leave before dawn Saturday and arrive by midmorning. We’ll come home Monday.”

“What should I bring? Will we be camping outside?”

He laughed at her enthusiasm. “Elena will help you to pack. She knows exactly what you’ll need. And no, I’ll be camping out, but the ladies will all be sharing bedrooms. Do you mind? The Crofts’ place is twice this size.”

“I don’t mind,” she told him. She was so excited at the thought of a party. Why did Bragg’s handsome face keep looming in her mind?

John leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. “I like seeing you happy,” he murmured.

“Wake up.”

Miranda opened her eyes sleepily. For a moment she forgot where she was, then it came flooding back to her. She was at the Crofts’ and had just taken a nap. They had arrived yesterday, by midmorning, as John had promised.

She had never had such a wonderful time as she’d had in the past day and a half. The Crofts were big, raw-boned people, but soft as silk beneath their leathery exterior. Beth Croft had introduced Miranda to everyone, shoving John into his crowd of friends. To her delight, everyone was warm and pleasant, whether young or old, male or female. Everyone accepted her. She especially enjoyed meeting a young wife like herself, Wilhemina Vereen. She was a year or two older than Miranda, a busty, almost stout blond who was always laughing.

Miranda had mentioned to Wilhemina that she had never dreamed Texans were so friendly. Wilhemina had laughed and answered in her usual blunt way. “But, dear, the men are friendly because you’re beautiful, and the women are friendly because you’re married and no threat. If you were single, none of the single girls would talk to you!” Although a little disillusioned, Miranda had to laugh.

The barbecue was actually a two-day party with a never-ending supply of food, drink, games, and dancing. John taught her to dance the fast-paced, wild jig, which she
loved—so much so that he was relieved to give her up to other partners. The men held foot races, wrestling matches, and shooting contests. There were horseshoes and a game from England, cricket. There were swimming and sunning—segregated by sex, of course. About a dozen families were in attendance, of which four were young and childless, like herself and John. The children ranged from a four-month-old infant to Eliza and two other single young women.

“All that dancing tired you out,” Wilhemina said, smiling. She had stripped off her dress and was changing her gown.

Miranda sat up. “Oh dear. It’s almost dark.”

“I didn’t want you to sleep through all the evening’s fun.”

“No chance of that,” Miranda said excitedly. She was wearing only a chemise, and she sponged herself all over with water and soap from a basin. From outside she could hear the sounds she had grown used to—laughter, animated conversation, shrieking children, a fiddler, a violinist, and a harmonica. She slipped on an emerald green gown of taffeta with short, puffed sleeves. Cream lace edged the modestly scooped neckline and cuffs.

“It’s funny, but that green makes your eyes even more purple,” Wilhemina mused. “It’s odd how John married such a tiny thing like you.”

Miranda smiled, knowing that she meant no offense. “You mean he should have married a big thing like you?”

Wilhemina laughed. “I’ve got my own man, thank you, and I wouldn’t trade him for anybody, not even a handsome Texas Ranger like Derek Bragg!” Wilhemina smiled dreamily.

“Do you love your husband?” Miranda asked, trying not to think about Bragg. She was disappointed that he wasn’t there.

“Very much.” Wilhemina grinned. “He’s handsome in his own way, I think. And when he touches me, my skin feels like it’s on fire.”

Miranda gaped.

Wilhemina shot her a look. “So you don’t like that part of married life, huh?”

Miranda grimaced slightly. “I can live without it, thank you.”

“Oh well, I imagine it’s you being a lady and all. Now me, I’m from good old peasant stock.” She winked, and the two girls went downstairs and outside.

Already couples were dancing. Wilhemina and Miranda stood side by side for a moment, glancing around the throng for their husbands as folks stood in merry clusters.

“Oh, there he is! See you later, Miranda.” She darted off.

Miranda sighed, then reached down and caught a ball Ben Parker had dropped and was chasing. “Ben, you’re going to trip and fall in the dark,” she scolded the eight-year-old.

He grinned slyly, took the ball, and ran away bouncing it, a puppy at his heels.

Miranda smiled, searching the crowd for John. Her gaze came across a man she hadn’t seen before, buckskin-clad like many of the men, tall, lean, and dark. His eyes held hers, and he tipped his hat—insolently, she thought. She frowned and looked away.

“There you are,” John said, coming up behind her. He kissed her cheek. “Did you have a good rest?”

“Yes, I slept like I was exhausted.”

“Too much dancing,” John said, chuckling.

“Your feet aren’t sore, are they?” she asked anxiously, her disappointment clear.

“Miranda, I would dance with you if I was still on crutches, seeing how happy it makes you.”

“Now?”

“Can we eat first?” He laughed, leading her toward a table full of food.

They ate and chatted, and twilight settled in. The younger children were sent protesting to bed. John and Miranda danced. Miranda had never danced before the previous day, and she loved it. Swirling on her toes, the music seeping into every pore, her body swaying, moving gracefully—it was so much like playing the piano. She wished that she could dance forever.

Of course, John was not a good dancer, and he didn’t really like it. But there were many men eager to dance
with his beautiful wife, especially the younger, slightly awed single ones. Miranda was tireless. She danced for an hour without stopping, with one partner after another. Her hair had long since tumbled free of its careful chignon, and it flowed behind her like a shimmering black cape.

After one number, as another man claimed her, a rider cantered into the midst of the dancers, causing a murmur to rise up. Miranda’s heart almost stopped. A rush of joy swept through her, even as the rider held up his hand for silence, not looking at her once.

John came up beside her, taking her hand. Miranda saw that Bragg’s horse was heavily lathered. The rest of the revelers had begun gathering as people whispered his name and came to investigate.

“What’s happened, Derek?” John asked gravely.

“Everyone quiet down,” Bragg said, not raising his voice. Silence fell.

“I have bad news. Fighting broke out today in San Antonio. As you all know, a peace parley was to take place with three Comanche chiefs. They were to bring all prisoners to exchange as a prerequisite for the talks. They only brought one, a girl, Matilda Lockhart.” He paused, his even gaze roaming over the crowd as mutters of surprise and indignation rose.

Again he raised his hand for silence. “Seven Texans were wounded in the fray, one was killed.” He continued on through the now angry murmur. “Thirty-five Comanche were killed, about twenty women and children taken prisoner. Thirty or so warriors escaped intact. I’m here to warn you to expect an increase in hostilities, as of now.”

Everyone began talking at once, angrily, trying to be heard.

“Bragg! Why did they only bring the girl?”

“What about the other captives?

“How did the rest get away?”

“What are the Rangers going to do?”

Bragg raised his hand again, and again the audience grew still. “I have a recommendation to make, and I urge it strongly. Everyone travel home tomorrow in groups for as much of the journey as possible. When you get back home, be prepared for raids and attacks. You all know the
Comanche style of war. Make sure your weapons are always within reach, and have enough water and ammunition to withstand a short siege. That’s all.”

“But what are the Rangers going to do?” someone called out loudly. “Are you riding after them? Is Lamar going to call out the militia?”

Bragg ignored the questions, moving his horse through the crowd and dismounting. The men converged upon him at once, asking the same questions, as the women hung on to every word.

John gave Miranda a brief hug. “Don’t worry, dear,” he told her. “The Comanche never attack my spread. I’ve got too many men who can shoot, and it’s too well built. They don’t like those kinds of odds.”

Miranda nodded, unable to speak, not sure if her heart was racing from fear or something else.

“I’ll be glad to chat later, over a whiskey or two,” Bragg was saying.

“Leave the poor captain alone,” Beth Croft shouted, bustling through the men. “I think I know just what you need, Derek.”

A grin split his bronzed face. “A hot bath?” His tone was hopeful. “Some of that barbecue pork?” He sniffed. “I could smell it the moment I rode in.”

“You come with me,” she said, taking his arm. “Someone see to the captain’s horse.”

Everyone was talking in animated, tense murmurs, speculating on the Comanche trouble they might face over the next few months. Standing in the background, Miranda listened, then walked away, shuddering. She thought about the poor girl who had been a prisoner of the Indians. How awful. She remembered what Bragg had told her happened to women taken prisoner, and she shivered again.

She was absorbed in her thoughts, marveling at the authority Bragg had over these people. Was John right? Were the Comanche afraid to attack their ranch, or was he just reassuring her?

Suddenly a small form ran right into her, and with a cry, they both fell. Miranda sat, reached out, and caught a child’s wrist. She pulled him close. “Who—? Ben Parker! I told you you’d have an accident with that ball!”

“I hurt my knee,” he cried, sniffling. “It’s bleedin’!”

“Let me see,” Miranda soothed, stroking his little shoulder and peering more closely at the raw knee. “Well, that can be fixed up in a flash. Can you walk? Come, we’ll go find your mother.”

“Ma will whup me for bein’ up,” he whispered. “Can’t you fix it—please?”

Miranda was sure his mother would not whip him, but then she wondered. Lucy Parker was a grim, lean, haggard woman, and Ben was her youngest—and eighth—child. The woman probably had no patience left. “All right,” she said. She took his hand and led him around the back of the house.

“Oh, wait, where’s Spot? I’ve lost Spot!” With that he wrenched free and ran easily back in the direction from which he had come.

“Is that you, Miranda?” Beth Croft asked, bustling out of the kitchen.

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Croft, I need some linens for bandages. Where can I find them?”

“Everything you need’s in the pantry, just off the kitchen—”

“Beth! Come over here and listen to this,” her husband shouted, gesturing grimly.

Beth started to hurry away. Then she hesitated, looking over her shoulder. “Miranda, maybe you should wait,” she called after her, then sighed and shrugged. What difference did it make? Miranda was married. She hurried over to her husband, guessing correctly that he and his cronies were in a serious discussion about defense against renewed Indian hostilities.

Miranda hurried into the kitchen, which was lit by a fire in the large hearth and one kerosene lamp. She paused, looking for the door to the pantry, and was about to move across to it when a casual drawl made her freeze.

“Hello, Miranda.”

She gasped. Bragg was sitting in a tub in front of the hearth. Because she hadn’t expected to find someone bathing in the kitchen, she hadn’t noticed him at first. Her face flushed. “What are you doing?” she breathed.

His shoulders and chest were bare, wet, and glistening
above the tub. He grinned. “What does it look like?” He sighed. “I’ve never seen you look better.”

Miranda swallowed. She tried not to look at his bare flesh, but it was exceedingly difficult not to. “I—I need some linens,” she managed.

Casually, as if he had no care in the world, he began to soap his shoulders, chest, and lower body. “You don’t have to worry about the Comanche,” he said easily, his eyes holding hers. “They avoid big, well-manned places like John’s.”

Bragg was rinsing, and she watched, fascinated, as he splashed water over himself. He glanced up and caught her gaze. Quickly she picked up the lantern and went into the pantry. Her hands shook a little. How could she have stood there and watched a man bathe? Where were the linens? She finally found them on the shelf right in front of her face, realizing she had been seeing in her mind’s eye only the man in the tub. She bit her lip, grabbed the bandages, and shut the door behind her.

“
Mon Dieu
,” she said, with a long, soft breath.

He was standing with his back to her, toweling himself off, all long, hard, rippling muscle. At her voice, he quickly wrapped the towel around his waist, and turned to face her. “Sorry,” he said. “What are you still so shy for? Hell, Mrs. Croft stood right here while I stripped.” He grinned. “Of course, she refused to leave until I gave her my clothes to launder.”

Miranda didn’t hear a word he said. The towel couldn’t hide his arousal. She practically choked as she whirled and fled. She couldn’t get outside soon enough. But the fresh, cool air didn’t make breathing any easier.