Innocent Fire (18 page)

Miranda had risen at the crack of dawn, after a mostly sleepless night, to ask Derek if he would take her into San Antonio so she could go to confession. The answer had been a short, rude, and very unequivocal no.

At first she was stunned, but she had no chance to argue the point, for he was gone all day. Apparently this was the time of the spring turnout, when all the cattle were driven to higher pastures for better grazing. She broached the subject again at dinner. Clearly in a foul mood, Bragg told her that she would have to wait until their wedding day, for he had no time or men to waste on a trip to town now.

Finally Miranda refused to think any more about her shockingly unladylike behavior.

The hours Bragg and his men worked were long, and Miranda didn’t see him at all the next three days. She performed her usual chores around the house, spending extra time in the kitchen with Elena, canning and preserving vegetables and jams. She did not dread this wedding as she had her wedding to John, even though she didn’t fully realize it. She knew Bragg. He wasn’t the stranger John had been when she’d married him. Besides, he was marrying her out of a sense of duty, to give her his name as protection. She assumed that was as far as their marriage would go. In fact, she was surprised he was even working the ranch, instead of riding with the Rangers. She asked
him about it the next evening, when he returned in time for supper.

“I’m curtailing my duties as a Ranger,” he told her, digging into a thick slab of steak. “This is a big spread, and now it’s yours. Someone has to run it or it’ll go into the ground. I’ll only ride with the Rangers during an emergency.”

Miranda was shocked. “John left the JB to me?”

Bragg smiled, studying her, his gaze momentarily soft, although a bit tired. “You were his wife, princess. Who else would he leave it to?”

“But—didn’t he have any kin? Surely some cousin or brother would deserve it more than I!”

“He left everything to you, Miranda. In fact, he had quite a few business holdings outside of the ranch, in Galveston and elsewhere. You’re actually quite a catch.” He grinned.

His playfulness, as usual, took her by surprise. It was so rare, and so incongruous to the deadly man she knew he was. Miranda smiled. “But, do you mind it? Staying here, not riding with the Rangers?”

“Not at all,” he said. “It’s funny, but my vendetta against the Comanche suddenly seems a bit old.”

“What vendetta?” She was highly curious.

“Why so many questions?”

“You’re going to be my husband,” she said softly.

Bragg smiled, looking pleased. “Well, I guess you might as well know, it’s common knowledge to a lot of folk.” He drained his glass of wine and poured another. “Sure you don’t want any?”

Miranda shook her head, blushing, and sliced a piece of steak.

“I was married,” he said casually. “She was Apache. We had a boy.”

Miranda stared, registering the past tense, but he spoke as if he were discussing the weather. His face was relaxed, and he was eating as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“They raided my spread.” He glanced at her. “Didn’t know I had land up the Pecos, did you? I was riding the range that day. I had left them behind, alone—Comanche
don’t war that far west, it’s Mescalero country.” Seeing her confusion, he said, “The Mescaleros are my people.”

Miranda nodded, barely able to breathe.

He shrugged, draining the wine. “I found my wife a year later. After they took her, the Comanche sold her to a brothel in Natchez. I took her home, but she died a few months later—wouldn’t eat, just wasted away.” He leaned back in his chair, meeting her gaze.

He was having trouble, she knew, maintaining his calm poise. His eyes were hooded, but she could feel the sadness, the unexorcised grief. “And…your son?”

“He was only six when they took him,” Bragg said, his jaw clenching. “I never found him. They would have taken him into their tribe, raised him as a Comanche. He had his mother’s coloring—even her eyes.” He looked away.

Miranda wanted to weep. She reached out to cover his large hand, but he pulled it away and attacked his potatoes. She wanted to ask more about what had happened, but she didn’t want to upset him any more. It was so tragic. So very, very tragic. She wondered how long ago this had taken place.

“Eat up,” he said, glancing at her very briefly, with a forced smile.

Eager to distract him, Miranda toyed with her food.

“Didn’t you learn obedience in that convent?”

She met his gaze and saw that he was amused. “Of course.”

“Then it’s an order. Eat everything. Jesus! A strong wind could blow you away.” He grinned. “Then what would I do?”

“Captain,” she reproved, “please don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”

He pushed his plate aside and watched her. “I was praying,” he said, smiling.

“You add one sin on top of another,” she accused, almost choking on the bite of meat she had swallowed.

He reached out and thwacked her on the back.

“Thank you,” she managed.

“You’re too Catholic.”

“Nobody can be too godly,” she said, regarding him as sternly as she could.

“Are you lecturing me?” He started chuckling.

“Aren’t you afraid to go to hell?” She studied him and saw his smile broaden. “Oh no! You don’t even believe in heaven and hell, do you? Or God?” She was stricken. The thought of Bragg someday going to hell upset her greatly.

“Sure I believe in God,” he said, pouring himself the last of what had been a full bottle of red wine.

“God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost?” She was hopeful.

“I have a feeling I shouldn’t get sucked into this discussion,” Bragg said, clearly enjoying himself.

“What do you believe, Derek? Can’t you be serious?”

“Are you going to try to convert me?”

“Maybe.”

He laughed. “I refuse to have a wife preaching religion at me.”

“Tell me your beliefs. Do you really believe in God?”

“You have the tenacity of a bulldog, princess. Yes, I do. In my own way.” He gazed at her with open, golden amusement.

Miranda had to ask. “And? In what way is that?”

He raised a large hand and gestured at the dining room. “I believe that God is the wind and the trees, the mountains and lakes. God is you and me.”

She gasped, scandalized.

“You look like you expect me to be struck down by lightning at this very moment.”

“I…I wouldn’t be surprised,” she managed. “That’s heathen blasphemy!”

“Not quite. I suppose, though, some might say it’s a perversion of Apache beliefs.”

Miranda was afraid to ask about the Apache religion. Instead she said, “Would you go to confession with me next week?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, throwing his napkin on the table, but he was smiling. “I’m a tolerant man, Miranda, and if you want to pray and confess and practice your religion, you can.” He straightened ominously, becoming very serious. “But—and it’s a big but—the day your
religion interferes with me, this household, or us is the day I stop being tolerant.” He stood up and held out his hand. “How about a walk in the moonlight?”

Miranda stared, her mind positively racing. Then she saw his hand and, a bit shocked, she rose and accepted it. They walked outside under the cottonwoods. The moon was big and white and bright, streaming through the newly leafed branches. They strolled in silence. Miranda couldn’t stop thinking.

At least John had been a God-fearing man. Although he said he was really a Protestant, he had gone to Mass with her…even if it was just to make her happy. But Bragg was truly a heathen. Should she ignore it? Let him die a heathen and go to hell? And what about his threat—for that’s what it had been, a threat. If she were to convert him, she would have to do it so subtly he wouldn’t even know what she was doing. Oh dear!

His soft, musical chuckle broke the silence. “I do believe I’ve given you a shock.”

“Just a bit,” she said.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” Father Miguel intoned. “You may kiss…”

Miranda was fully aware of every word the priest spoke, and even more aware of the man standing at her side. Bragg was clad in a black frock coat with a plain white shirt and gray cravat. He seemed uncomfortable in his formal attire. She was aware of his closeness, his even breathing, his presence—his body heat. When he slipped the gold band, so simple and plain, on her finger, she felt a rush of warm happiness. However, that emotion fled quickly. Before she could absorb the fact that she was indeed married to this enigmatic, powerful Ranger, he had pulled her against him. With no thought of modesty, his mouth captured hers. The kiss was not soft or gentle. As his lips played demandingly upon hers, hard and insistent, she felt a tremor shake him. Then he released her. He caught her as she swayed slightly, taking one of her arms and holding her securely against his side.

The church echoed with silence.

There were no guests, out of respect and mourning for John—only the newly wedded couple, Father Miguel, and the two Rangers, Pecos and Lakely. Pecos had given the bride away. They approached with smiles to congratulate the couple.

“You lucky devil,” the tall, lanky Pecos was saying. He was grinning.

“I think so,” Bragg said, confusing Miranda. His arm had now gone possessively around her shoulder.

“Congratulations, ma’am,” Lakely said.

“Thank you.” Miranda was suddenly, inexplicably, exhausted.

“Ma’am, if I do say so, you are the prettiest gal I’ve ever seen, and I do mean that,” Pecos said gallantly, grinning.

She smiled. “Thank you, Pecos.”

“And if you ever get tired of ole Cap, you just let me know. I’d be more’n happy to help out.”

This time, she blushed.

“Are you all right?” Derek whispered in her ear, his breath warm. A pleasant tingle raced down her spine.

“I’m a bit worn out, Derek,” she confessed.

He chuckled. “Say that again.”

She was puzzled. “I’m a—”

“No, my name.” His gaze was so warm and so intent upon her face that she felt color rising to her cheeks.

“Really, please,” she murmured.

“You are so shy,” he said huskily. “I want to kiss you again…but I think you’d faint from embarrassment.”

“Oh no, please!” Miranda was truly alarmed. It was bad enough that John was barely cold in his grave. And she was still very aware of the reasons for this marriage—duty, responsibility. Her new husband would be taking advantage of their situation if he kissed her again. She could not allow it. Fortunately, he seemed to be only teasing her.

Of course he knew, just as she hoped everyone else did, that this was a marriage to give her the protection of his name—and that was all.

They walked to the hotel, and Derek said, “Miranda, I’ll see you upstairs, but then I’ll leave you for a bit. I’m going to have a few drinks with the men.”

“That’s fine,” Miranda said, wanting nothing more than to change out of her lavender silk gown and crawl into bed. Why was she so utterly exhausted?

Bragg walked her to the hotel and upstairs to their suite.
“I won’t be long,” he promised, opening the door but then reaching for her.

Again he caught her by surprise. She opened her mouth to protest. No words came out; instead, he held her head still with one large hand while his lips plundered hers, his tongue exploring the space she had granted him. Bolts of lightning-sharp heat swept her—and then, just as abruptly, he released her.

“I will see you soon,” he said, not smiling. His voice had a husky catch.

Miranda began to protest, but found herself facing the closed door. She placed a palm over her breast, turning away. Her heart was racing. Good God, he didn’t think…He did! He obviously expected them to consummate this marriage!

Miranda stared at the beautifully appointed sitting room without seeing a single detail of the furnishings. Was it possible Bragg thought to sleep with her? With John not two weeks dead?

Of course not! She felt a huge, overwhelming sense of relief. A barbarian Bragg might be, but he had loved John, in a man’s way, and he certainly had an innate respect for his dead friend. He was just being—Bragg. Feeling relieved, she began to remove her clothes.

By now, she had gleaned all the information about him that she could from Elena. His wife and son had been abducted by the Comanche eight years ago, and it had taken him close to a year to find her and free her. She had died not many months after he had brought her back to their people, where they had lived, for his spread had been burned out and he had never rebuilt it. His son would be about ten now; he would have been raised as a Comanche, and by now would think he was one. Indeed, if no one told him differently, he would never know the truth about his parents.

Bragg had joined the first, earliest Texans in their fight against Mexico shortly after his wife’s death. He’d participated in all the bloody rebellion for Texas’s independence. He had ridden with the first Rangers, when their duties were not yet clear. His life for the past eight years—since his family’s abduction—had been nothing but an extended
campaign of bloodshed and war, first in the fight for Texas, then in his vendetta against the Comanche.

Could a man like Bragg possibly settle down? Miranda wondered. He seemed to think that was what he was doing. She wanted to see him release the past. He didn’t seem like a man driven by hatred, but she understood him well enough now to know that he kept his feelings buried deep inside.

He was such a confusing man, she thought, sliding into bed clad in a flannel nightgown that buttoned to the throat. Sleep promptly overtook her.

Boisterous male laughter rang out, deep-throated, a bit inebriated. Bragg leaned back in his chair, looking every bit a gentleman, although he had unbuttoned his coat and loosened his cravat. His feet were starting to throb, a sure sign that he’d worn his damn dress boots long enough. It had been about an hour since he’d left Miranda. He was still so damn excited. He didn’t want to be excited, he wanted to have control, he wanted to make love to her leisurely and languidly all night long. He wanted to make her happy, very happy.

“He’s mooning again,” Pecos said, grinning. “Lovestruck calf!”

Bragg smiled, not in the least insulted, and poured himself another shot of rye. “To envious dogs and other vermin,” he said, raising his glass. “To the color green—it suits you.” He drank.

Pecos laughed, and Lakely smiled. Jed Barnes, a neighbor, said, “Who wouldn’t be moonstruck? I’m moonstruck, and I don’t mind admitting it.”

“To honest men,” Bragg said blandly, trying not to think of her—of her white, slender body ready and eager for him. “Damn,” he said. He stood. “Linette! Where’s that champagne?”

“Goddamn! I wish…right now, I’d sell my soul to be you,” Pecos said, meaning every word.

“God, I ain’t ever had a sweet, good woman,” Jed said. “Damn, maybe I’ll get married too.”

Bragg ignored them, but only after sending Pecos a warning glance. He didn’t feel like hearing any ribald comments, and to his surprise, Pecos didn’t make any. Linette appeared with a champagne bottle, nice and cold, and two glasses. “Thank you, sweetheart,” Bragg said.

“Don’t you want to thank me proper before you go up?” she asked, standing with her hip thrust out, a long leg revealed. “As a proper goodbye?” She smiled seductively.

“Sorry.” Bragg grinned, pleased, of course, that Linette wanted him. “But Pecos can stand in my stead.” He winked at his friend, who laughed.

Bragg hurried out of the saloon and up the stairs, his heart racing. He wanted to slow down. He wanted to be in control. He just couldn’t keep a check on his vivid, sensual thoughts. He couldn’t wait to have Miranda in his arms.

She was his! It felt incredibly good. Had he ever felt this good before? That was too complex a thought, he decided, setting down the champagne and glasses to unlock the door. He slipped in quietly, wondering what she was doing. The suite was completely hushed.

He moved stealthily into the bedroom, his burden in both hands, and paused in the doorway. It was dusk. The light in the room was dim, but not so dim that he couldn’t see her asleep in the middle of the big four-poster bed. He saw she had braided her hair. Now why in hell had she done that?

He set down the champagne and glasses on a table by the fireplace. He pulled off his boots and slipped off the jacket and cravat, feeling much more comfortable. He proceeded to light a fire, prodding it until the flames caught. Then he rose, turning to look at his wife.

Miranda was awake and staring at him. She looked surprised and afraid.

A warm melting began in his heart and spread all over. “Hi,” he said softly, smiling. Beauty incarnate, he thought absurdly. He noted, too, that she was holding the covers to her throat. He moved and lit a candle, and carried it to her bedside table.

“What—what are you doing?”

It took every ounce of willpower he had not to pull her into his arms and ravish her. The past week, having her so close, knowing that she was his but not being able to touch her, had been sheer hell. He wondered if he should have had a woman, any woman, to relieve some of his intense need. He had sent Bianca away with great annoyance the very first night he had brought Miranda home with John’s corpse. He had not minced words, either. He had no intention of bedding Bianca under his soon-to-be wife’s nose.

“Getting ready for bed,” he said, wondering if he was really hearing his own voice—it was strangely tender and gentle.

Miranda sat up. “What?”

He stared at the ugly, childish nightgown. “After tonight,” he said, “I want you to throw that thing away.”

She was momentarily confused. “What? What are you talking about? What do you mean, you’re getting ready for bed?”

He forgot about the nightgown—he would buy her a hundred nightgowns, even if it broke him. Sheer, lacy silk things to enhance her beauty, not hide it. He cupped her face. “This is my room, too,” he murmured, trying to ignore the rush of blood to his loins. His hands slipped behind her, and he found the ribbon of her braid, untying it.

She pulled back. “Derek! What are you—Stop!”

He had freed her hair, and it fell in glorious, thick strands around her delicate oval face. He heard the panic in her voice. Why is she afraid? Certainly not of me? And the other question—had she learned passion? He stood and moved to the champagne, grateful for the dim light. He didn’t want her to see how eager he was. He realized she was still untouched—she hadn’t learned the joys of lovemaking. It fed his excitement. He was going to be the one to teach her.

With his back to her, he poured two glasses of champagne. His hands trembled slightly. He carried them over, sitting beside her on the bed, holding one glass out to her. Her violet eyes were huge in the flickering candlelight.

“Here,” he murmured.

“I don’t believe this,” she said, looking stunned. She took the glass and set it firmly on the bedside table. “What is wrong with you?”

Bragg blinked at the indignation in her tone. “Excuse me?”

“Champagne? What, pray tell, are we celebrating?”

He felt as if she’d slapped him in the face, and he sat straighter, his pleasure draining away. “This is our wedding night,” he said coldly, to cover the hurt he was feeling.

“Have you forgotten the reason for this wedding?” Her voice was an incredulous whisper.

Anger was etched on his face. He drained his champagne, then flung the glass at the hearth. At the sound of the glass shattering, Miranda jumped. He took her arms and pulled her close. “I refuse to share our bed with a ghost, Miranda.”

She cried out, and he loosened his hold. “Our bed!”

“Yes, dammit, I don’t care how much you loved him, life goes on, and our life starts now, tonight.” He smothered her protest with his kiss, his passion erupting in the storm he had wanted to control, holding her tightly, too tightly. Forcing her mouth open, he kissed her so hard his teeth caught hers, grating. He thrust his tongue in, forcing her down on her back, covering her with his own body.

He was so close to being out of control—and that was not the way he wanted it. However, he was aware enough to feel her body stiffen like an unyielding board beneath him, until she began to struggle. Then she became wild, though her strength was pitiful. Abruptly he released her and jumped to his feet, stepping away. He was aghast at himself, and furious at her, at everything.

Had she loved John?

“How dare you!” she cried, her eyes blazing.

“How dare I?” he asked, panting like an animal. “How dare I what? How dare I take what’s mine?”

“In name only,” she shrieked. “You married me to protect me, you said, not to rape me!”

He stared, shocked, his desire abruptly dying. “I have no intention of raping you, Miranda,” he said, his voice
level. What in hell was she raving about? Did she really think he was some kind of bastard? “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Yes, I think so,” she breathed heavily.

He couldn’t help but notice her breasts rising and falling rapidly, stretching taut the ridiculous gown. Her nipples were hard. He looked at her face. “You are my wife, in every sense of the word. Yes, I gave you my name to protect you, but I intend to enjoy all my husbandly rights.”

Miranda sat back, the color draining from her face.

“Am I distasteful?” Another stabbing pain.

“I thought…I thought it was just in name…a marriage in name only.”

He laughed bitterly. “I’m afraid you thought wrong.”

Tears fell from her eyes.

Bragg cursed. “I intend for you to be my wife, Miranda, completely, and you won’t deny me.”

“I refuse to allow you to—to exercise your rights, not until a proper period of mourning has passed.”

He scowled. “Really?”

“If you have no respect for me,” she cried, “then at least show some for your poor dead friend! I will not have you satisfying your lust on his barely cold grave! Don’t you have any sensitivity? Or are you completely selfish?” Her voice had risen to a scream.

He moved slowly, pulling on his coat. “Of course,” he said stiffly. “I had forgotten propriety, again.” He sat and pulled on the boots, cursing clearly as he did so. He ignored her flaming face. “And what, Miranda, is a proper time of mourning?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. He was angry, hurt, and bitter. “Pray tell,” he said mockingly, “so I do not offend your delicate sensibilities by coming to your bed too soon.”

“A year, of course.”

He stood abruptly, staring. “I will give you three more weeks,” he said curtly, harshly. “This is Texas, not London, not Paris. A month of mourning is proper here.”

Miranda looked ready to cry again.

“And since you deny me,” he added cruelly, wanting to hurt her, “you can have no complaint should I not
return to you this evening?” He raised a brow, waiting for her reaction.

It took a moment for her to understand. Her color rose and she averted her eyes. “No, of course not. Do what—you must.”

“I intend to,” he said, furious. He picked up the champagne bottle and drank deeply until it was almost empty. “To you, Miranda, a true lady. How dare I forget?” He finished the bottle. His mouth set in a hard line, he hurled it at the hearth. The bottle exploded, and he heard the bed creak as Miranda leaped in fright, but he felt no satisfaction. He stalked out, slamming the door behind him.