Innocent Fire (17 page)

Miranda was used to obeying. After all, she had spent her whole life obeying one form of authority or another. First her mother and father, then the sisters and the mother superior, then her aunt, Bragg, and her husband. She did not expect to make her own decisions; indeed, she never had. After a few hours of tossing and turning, she realized it was just as well that Bragg make the decisions that would affect her life, and not some man she did not know. No matter what Bragg was, or how crude at times, for some reason she trusted him.

She had lost sight of the fact that Bragg had been closer to John than anyone, and she felt very badly about being so insensitive to his hurt. She pushed aside the rebelliousness which was so ungodly and resolved to forgive his high-handedness and lack of manners. After all, he was a barbarian, half Indian—it wasn’t his fault. She also tried very hard to forget that he really didn’t want to marry her, that this marriage was his duty. For some reason, that thought bothered her immensely, so she quelled it by shoving it way into the back of her mind.

The next morning she lay in bed, awake, knowing it was late, thinking about him. She remembered how he had held her the night before, how his sorrow had been a tangible thing, communicating itself to her through every pore and fiber of his body. She rose resolutely and got
dressed. He needed her right now, and she intended to help ease his grief.

It was a new role for her, one she was enthusiastic about playing. No one had ever needed her before. Inspired by an idea, she dressed in a riding habit and hurried downstairs. Elena was the only one about, kneading dough in the kitchen.

“Señora! I was just about to bring you breakfast.” She was beaming. “I am so glad you’re up. Come, sit. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry, Elena,” Miranda replied, a bit breathlessly. “Where is Captain Bragg?”

“He is out riding with the men across the valley.”

Miranda’s face fell. Then her expression brightened. “Did they go far?”

Elena was already cracking eggs into a black iron pan. Bacon followed, sizzling. “No, not far. Why?”

Miranda didn’t answer. She knew she could handle Daisy, the gentle mare she had ridden with John, but she wasn’t thrilled about riding alone. Still, she wanted to see him. She wanted to be with him, to make him smile. She knew he was hurting deep inside, hiding it from the world, and she wanted to take some of the hurt away. It was an urge to comfort as old as time.

She forced down some eggs and a strip of bacon, as well as a cup of the scalding coffee, which she was coming to appreciate. When Elena wandered out to the smokehouse, Miranda quickly packed a picnic lunch—an inspiration. Then she hurried outside, knowing that Elena would disapprove of her riding even just a few miles out to find Bragg.

Daisy welcomed her with a snort, shoving her velvet muzzle into her hand. “I didn’t bring you anything, girl,” Miranda said, patting her. “I’m sorry.”

Saddling and bridling the mare was not an easy task. Although she had seen it done a hundred times, she had never done it before. The saddle was heavy, and she was short, but she finally managed to heave it onto Daisy’s back. Cinching the girth was easy, and Daisy accepted the bit readily. Miranda was very proud that she had tacked the mare all by herself.

Mounting was another problem, but she was becoming
excited at the thought of surprising Bragg. She led Daisy to a bale of hay, climbed up on it, and from there slid on. They set off at a trot.

By now she was used to riding, although she did bounce a bit. Both Bragg and John had told her that the secret to sitting well in the saddle was to relax her spine, but it was easier said than done. She slowed Daisy to a walk, which was much more comfortable, and they ambled leisurely through the endless meadow.

The house disappeared behind them. Miranda had never been alone outdoors, and it was a heady feeling. She breathed deeply of the rich, crisp air and gazed with awed eyes at the splendor of the forested mountains, the jagged peaks, all around her. She imagined being a man like Bragg, able to come and go as he pleased with no fear of the wilderness, strong and free. It was exciting. She liked riding alone.

Not for the first time since she had arrived in Texas, she felt a majestic sense of awe at this savage land. This time the feeling was strong, unquenchable, uplifting. She decided she would ride every day and explore the valley. Of course, she wouldn’t go far. Even now, she was only a few miles from the house. Although everyone said that no Indians bothered the ranch, she was not a fool. She had no intention of stumbling upon a band of Comanche.

Exhilarated, the way she felt when she played the piano or danced the wild jig, Miranda urged Daisy into a lope. It was a brave thing for her to do because she knew she was no horsewoman. But, actually, it was easier sitting to the gentle canter than it was to the bouncy trot, once she got over her fear of going faster. Color rose in her cheeks. It was a magnificent morning, a magnificent day.

Miranda heard the pounding hooves when he was almost upon her. She felt a flash of fear, wondering who could be racing up behind her like a madman, then looked over her shoulder and instantly recognized Bragg. The chestnut was going all out, lathered, and as Bragg came abreast of her he reached out and grabbed her reins, pulling up both his mount and the mare so abruptly that she almost lost her seat.

“What’s wrong with you?” he shouted, his expression
furious. He had urged his horse against hers so his knee touched hers, and he still held her reins. “Miranda, are you a fool? An idiot?”

The pleasure of the morning fled. She looked at him mutely, feeling like crying under the harsh onslaught of his words.

“Dammit,” he yelled, reaching out and shaking her by her shoulders. “You’re not allowed to ride alone, do you understand? Never!
Never
!”

Miranda felt a tear creep down her cheek and fought as hard as she could to control herself.

“Don’t you have a goddamn thing to say?” His voice was still hard, although he was no longer shouting. “You
should
cry. I hope you feel bad. You can’t possibly feel bad enough for doing such a stupid thing.”

She wiped at her tears.

“Dammit,” he said, and before she knew it, he had pulled her off her horse and onto his, wrapping her in his arms. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said, holding her tightly against his body, his mouth against her ear. “Don’t you ever scare me that way again.”

“I just wanted to see you,” she said, her voice broken.

“God, if something had happened…” He squeezed her, and she thought she felt his mouth pressing briefly against her neck.

A warm, hot flood rose up in her. She snuggled closer, her face wet from tears. His embrace was so warm. His body was so hard. There was something fiercely possessive about the way he held her, and something infinitely tender, too.

Miranda raised her face to look at him and saw that his eyes were closed. He opened them to meet her wide gaze. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You’d better be,” he said gruffly.

“I brought you lunch.”

His eyes widened, then he smiled grudgingly. “You little fool! Did you really bring me lunch?”

She felt him softening, saw that he was unable to hide his pleasure. “Yes.”

He smiled openly then as she straightened in his embrace. “Why did you bring me lunch?”

Miranda flushed. “To make you feel better,” she said after a pause.

He gazed at her with surprise. She wriggled out of his arms and slid to her feet. “Are you too angry to have lunch with me?” She hesitated. “I am sorry. Everyone kept saying the ranch is safe.”

“It is, usually,” he said, staring at her, then dismounting. “But a woman never rides alone, never. And you don’t handle a horse well enough yet, either.” He shook his head.

“But…it was wonderful,” she said, holding his gaze. “I…felt so happy.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “If you want to ride, Miranda, you certainly can. But with an escort. Also, I think it’s time you learned how to shoot and had your own pistol.” He thought about that idea for a moment, then grinned. It was the kind of smile that made her heart flutter. “I’m starved.”

Miranda accepted the basket he took down from her mount and watched as he spread his bedroll out beneath two shady oaks. “What do you have in there?” he asked, a happy note in his voice as he sprawled casually on the blanket.

Miranda sat down, careful not to sit too close, and placed the basket between them. “Sausage, cheese, bread, and peach cobbler,” she murmured, realizing that she was alone in the middle of the great sprawling valley with this rugged man. Her pulse seemed to be racing. “And wine. I hope you have an appetite,” she said softly.

His gaze was golden and intense, holding hers. “I do,” he said, and for some reason the way he was looking at her, the melodious timbre of his voice, made her flush and wonder if he was referring to the food.

Miranda laid out the food and served them while he opened the wine, pouring two glasses. As she handed him a plate, her hand brushed his, making her nerves tingle.

“Thank you,” he said.

Miranda watched him eat. He wrapped the sausage in the bread and bit hungrily into it. Before her very eyes, half the sandwich disappeared. He took a swallow of wine,
then glanced at her over the rim of his glass, his eyes sparkling with good humor.

Miranda felt unaccountably nervous, and she drained half her wine.

Bragg finished the food she had given him, and the wine, and refilled both their glasses. “What else is in there?”

“Peach cobbler,” she said, handing him a huge slice.

“How come you’re never hungry?” he asked, his eyes on her.

“I just ate, before I went riding.” She smiled. “Elena wouldn’t let me out of her sight until I’d eaten.” She was feeling very relaxed.

“How am I going to fatten you up?” His voice was teasing.

Miranda blushed. She was remembering that he had said before that she was too skinny, and it bothered her. She resolved to eat more. The wine was making her feel dreamy and wonderful.

“Elena is a great cook,” he said, studying her intently. “Can you cook?”

She wondered why he was always looking at her with such great interest. Suddenly she had a thought, and she laughed.

“That’s funny?” he asked, smiling and leaning closer, lying down and propping himself up on one elbow.

“No, I was just thinking—if the mother superior saw me now…” She giggled, imagining that woman’s despair—no, horror.

“I think you’re drunk.”

Miranda gasped. “I am not. Ladies don’t get drunk!” Highly indignant, she finished the rest of the wine.

He smiled, reaching out lazily and taking her hand. His hand was so big it swallowed hers easily, and it was warm and strong.

Her laughter trailed off. The look in his eyes was so sensual, and in spite of herself she was warmed and mesmerized.

Miranda wasn’t sure how it happened. He was lying there, so close, too close, holding her hand, pulling on it. The next thing she knew, she was on her side, facing him,
his arms around her, his hands stroking her back. He was smiling slightly, and he kept staring steadily into her eyes. She knew beyond a doubt that he was going to kiss her. She wanted his kiss desperately. She ached for it.

His face lowered slowly, too slowly. “You are so beautiful, Miranda.” His words were a husky caress.

She closed her eyes, barely breathing, her lips parted—waiting.

His mouth was soft and moist as it brushed her jaw. His breath tickled her ear. His lips played lightly over her cheek, one fluttering eyelid. His breath was warm, uneven. His hold tightened as his mouth caressed hers gently.

Delicious sensations, exciting sensations, feelings such as she’d never experienced, ran through her. She opened her mouth, pressing against him, her arms going around his neck. He pulled her hard against him then, throwing one thigh over hers, his mouth demanding. His tongue probed through her lips. She gasped with pleasure, wondering dimly how she could ever have found this act revolting. She could feel his heart pounding fast and erratically against her chest—or was it her heart? He held the back of her head with one hand, holding her still so he could better plunder her mouth. She strained against him eagerly. She couldn’t think; all she could do was feel.

His hands were everywhere, roaming her shoulders, her arms, her back. She gasped with surprise, wanting to protest when he captured one breast, cupping it, but the jolts of electric pleasure that shot through her destroyed all such intentions. She heard a strange sound—and it had come from her. Bragg groaned heavily, rubbing his palm over her stiffening nipple. She arched herself more fully into his hand.

He rolled her beneath him, his full weight upon her. A warning voice tried to pierce the haze of wine and sensual delight. He had fit himself so intimately against her that she could feel his hard, hot manhood pressing against her belly, and the ache it brought was both sweet and painful, and very, very insistent. His kiss was savage. His hips moved against her. Her thighs opened, and he took the opening, pressing his own thighs between and moving hers farther apart. His hold tightened around her.

“Miranda,” he whispered raggedly. “Darling, we have to stop, or I’m going to take you right here, right now.” He kissed her again, lingering, pulling at her lower lip. He groaned. She clung to him. With great effort, he pulled himself free and stood up.

The withdrawal of his warmth and touch was like a splash of cold water. Her eyes flew open, to see him standing and staring at her with such a look of hunger that she couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. All she could do was stare back.

Bragg whistled tunelessly as he walked across the clearing between the bunkhouse and the ranch house. His mood was fine, his spirits even better. He laughed out loud, feeling more than self-satisfied—almost smug. He thought about the coming night, about the kisses he would steal. His grin broadened. He tried not to think about his wedding night, which was still a week away. No, six days. He could barely wait.

He had thawed the Ice Princess. Miranda had melted.

He entered the house and strode into the kitchen, startling both women. “When’s supper?” he asked Elena, watching her slicing freshly baked, steaming bread. He sniffed a huge pot of stew, then lifted up a spoon to taste its contents.

“Very soon, señor,” Elena told him, waiting expectantly for his reaction.

“God, that’s good! Is Miranda still asleep?” He felt a bit foolish. Since the afternoon, he had not been able to stop thinking about her, lasciviously, of course. He was acting like a boy about to bed his first woman.

“
Sí
.”

Bragg turned and trotted up the stairs. He knocked on her door, listening intently to the sounds coming from within. Miranda told him to enter.

He stepped in, grinning. “Hi, princess. I thought you were going to sleep right through dinner.”

She was clad only in her chemise and petticoat, and she flushed, reaching for a wrapper and slipping it on modestly. “I thought you were Bianca,” she murmured. She did not meet his eyes.

She was too tempting. He reached her in two strides. Before she could move, he had wrapped her in his embrace, pulling her intimately against him, his mouth seeking hers. There was nothing lazy or easy about this assault. She devastated his control, his very senses.

To his complete shock, Miranda stiffened, then began to struggle. He lifted his head but didn’t release her. “What’s this?” he asked, confused.

“Let go,” she cried. “Good Lord! Have you no manners, no sensibilities? Captain! Release me.” Her eyes were blazing, and so were her cheeks.

He let her go, still confused. “Miranda—”

“How dare you treat me like some trollop,” she cried, clearly upset and angry.

He stared. “But—”

Her face crumpled. “But how could you not? The way I acted this afternoon…like some harlot…” She turned away, her voice breaking.

His reaction was swift. “No, Miranda, don’t do this to yourself.” He grabbed her shoulders from behind, but she wrenched out of his grasp. “Miranda!”

“No! Don’t touch me, I mean it!”

Angry now, he whipped her around to face him. “You liked my touch this afternoon,” he said bluntly. “You loved it!”

“I was drunk,” she whispered, looking stricken.

“What kind of excuse is that? We’re going to be married next week, Miranda. What’s wrong with sharing a few kisses? You’re going to be my wife, dammit.”

“Everything’s wrong, that’s what! John isn’t even cold in his grave, and you’re lusting after me! If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t even care that he was dead!”

He tensed, fighting hard for control, trying not to hit her. “You know how I loved John,” he finally said, many moments later.

“Then act like it,” she said evenly. “Show some respect. Stop acting like some wild beast!”

Her words stung. “I forgot you were such a lady, Miranda,” he said, his words cruel and mocking. “Excuse me, but after this afternoon, how was I to remember?” He whirled and slammed out of the room.

God, would he ever understand women? Then he quickly reminded himself that Miranda was not any woman, but a lady, the kind of woman he had never had to deal with before. So just how was he supposed to act? He could stay away from her for the next week, because, as much as he hated to admit it, she was right. But what about after that, when the lady became his wife? Just how was he supposed to treat her then?

He had no idea.