Innocent Fire (19 page)

Bragg did not come to fetch her to return to the ranch until midmorning. Miranda could not forget his temper of the night before, in fact, she could not forget anything about the night before. She remembered his curiously soft voice—until they had argued about his rights as a husband. She shivered again, thinking about his violent temper. His temper frightened her. But even that sensation was lost to another, stronger one. True to his word, he had not returned that night, or that morning, not until close to ten o’clock.

Then he had come in looking very rumpled, and quite red-eyed. He had told her in one sentence to be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Ignoring her, he had changed into his buckskins. They had left fifteen minutes later.

Miranda didn’t understand why she felt so sick inside—and she couldn’t stop wondering about where he had been the previous night. Had he really been with a woman? But then, what did it matter? Hadn’t she wanted a marriage in name only? Why was she so upset?

They were traveling back to the ranch with a very gruff, hard-looking older man riding alongside their wagon. Bragg briefly introduced him as Brown. He was tall, buckskin-clad, of course, and heavily bearded. Miranda didn’t dare ask Bragg anything. His face was a mask of tightly con
trolled anger. He also reeked—of alcohol. He seemed oblivious of her presence.

Miranda found out later that day from Bianca that Brown was her personal guard. She was shocked. Why did she need a personal guard? It was disconcerting that the man was outside her door when she was in her room, and followed her about at a discreet distance. This was only the first day, and she was annoyed, feeling his black eyes constantly upon her. Had something happened that she didn’t know about, to warrant this? Or was Bragg preparing to leave, maybe to ride with the Rangers?

He came in late that afternoon, but his expression was still so hard that she was afraid to ask. He didn’t even seem to see her as he strode through the house and upstairs to his room. She heard him bellow for Bianca to bring hot water. Then, to her surprise, she noticed that Brown had disappeared, and she ran to the door and saw him walking toward the bunkhouse. She was confused, until she realized that she wouldn’t need a guard while Bragg was in the house.

It took her a while to get up the courage to approach him. She knew that Bianca had brought the hot water for a bath up to his room, but she had not come back down. A stab of anxiety seized her. She had a vivid memory of Bianca clinging to Bragg in the clearing in the woods. Oh no. She gritted her teeth and marched up the stairs. She didn’t knock.

Bragg was standing naked in the room, facing the door—and Bianca. Miranda felt a murderous rage. He glared at her with a flash of light in his eyes. Miranda closed the door behind her, then saw that her husband was handing Bianca his dirty buckskins quite disinterestedly. She averted her gaze from his naked body, flushing. “Please go, Bianca,” she said calmly.

Bianca left.

Bragg stood there, staring at her, and folded his arms across his chest. “Did you want something, Miranda?”

She realized that she was standing in his room, not five feet from him, and he was stark naked. She had only had brief glimpses of his body in the past, and never a full
view. For a moment she couldn’t talk as she stared fixedly at his shoulder. “Yes.”

He waited.

Her gaze traveled over his body of its own accord. Even with his arms crossed negligently, she could see that his chest was broad and hard and hairy, his muscles bunched. His belly was hard and smooth, banded with muscle, the hair narrowing into a delicate line. She gasped when her gaze found a thick, swollen member, and abruptly she turned her back to him.

Her face was burning. She had never seen that before. Her heart was pumping, wildly, madly. She forgot the entire reason she had come to his room.

Bragg felt a rush of amusement, then stepped into the steaming tub. “You act like you’ve never seen a man before, Miranda. Did you want something?” Against his will, his tone was not as frosty as he’d have liked. He knew he was sulking, but, damn—he wanted to sulk. He was still hurt and angry over her rejection, her obvious lack of desire for him.

She turned, her face as usual giving away her every emotion. “It’s not proper that Bianca be in here,” she said stiffly.

Bragg searched her face hopefully for a sign of jealousy. He smiled when he found it. It was indignant, but undeniably there. “She’s seen plenty of men naked, Miranda, believe me. It doesn’t bother her.”

“I insist,” she said, looking ready to cry.

He suddenly realized what she was thinking, and he straightened in the tub. “Miranda! Don’t even think it. I am not sleeping with Bianca under your nose—and never will. Put it out of your mind.”

She was relieved.

His face softened. “I’m not such a cad, am I? Come here.”

She hesitated.

“I can’t scrub my back,” he complained. “Can’t you perform that one little wifely chore?” He flashed her a mischievous smile. “I promise not to bite.”

Miranda approached, taking the washcloth and soap. “Derek, about that man. Brown.”

He leaned forward, showing her a long expanse of broad, sinewed back. She began to soap him, surprised at the feel of his warm, bare skin. He was so silken—and so hard.

Bragg sighed and closed his eyes. Heaven, he thought.

“Derek? Is Brown necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I want him around you—ahh…”

She froze at his sensual moan.

“Don’t stop,” he said, trying to sound casual but failing.

“Your back is clean,” she said, rinsing it with her hands. They trembled. She had a crazy urge to lean her cheek against his warm skin, to nuzzle him. She quickly shoved the inclination away, shocked at herself. She stood up.

But he caught her wrist. “Don’t,” he said, twisting to look up at her. He smiled lazily. “Wash my hair, my chest. Wife.”

“Really, Derek, you can manage yourself.” Her voice sounded funny, cracked and shrill.

“Is it really so much to ask?” His tone was husky, seductive. “I give you my name and all I ask in return is a woman’s gentle touch—a bath.”

“You had a woman’s gentle touch last night,” she said before she could help it.

“Jealous?”

“It’s your right,” she managed. She was jealous! The thought shocked her.

He still held her wrist, and he smiled, his golden eyes strangely bright. “You fool,” he breathed.

“Please,” she said, barely able to breathe herself. She had, by mistake, glimpsed down, and the water had magnified and reflected that male part of him, seemingly straining toward her. She couldn’t believe she had ever had a thing like that inside her. Could John have been that big?

Bragg suddenly wanted her to know the truth—it was so important. “There was no woman last night, Miranda. I don’t want another woman, and I want to make myself very clear. Do you understand?”

His words, his tone, so serious now, forced her to look
into his eyes. She flushed again, furious at having been caught staring, then realized what he’d said—and was unaccountably thrilled. “But where were you?”

“Getting drunk,” he rasped, and closed his eyes. He wanted her—now. He had promised her three weeks to mourn, but he had only done so because he was fair enough to know that she was right. Despite what she thought, he did have some sensitivity. But if he tortured himself this way, he would go back on his word….

“Why don’t you change and meet me downstairs,” he said.

Relieved, Miranda extracted her hand and quickly crossed the room, feeling his eyes on her. It wasn’t until she had closed the door behind her that she realized she felt something suspiciously like disappointment. But that was ridiculous, of course.

The next few days passed exceedingly slowly. Bragg was gone all day, every day, riding with the men. She had the feeling he enjoyed it. She was surprised to recognize her feelings of loneliness, and her eagerness when he returned. After their first night back, he had missed supper three times, to her great disappointment. She had remained downstairs, ostensibly engrossed in a book, waiting for him, wanting to see him if only for a few minutes before she went to bed. He had seemed surprised and then pleased on each occasion, but had behaved properly, sending her upstairs with a brief kiss on the cheek.

Miranda denied that the touch of his lips on her skin had any effect. She was in mourning for her husband. She was also a properly raised and well-bred English gentlewoman, and a devout Catholic. It was the strangeness of his touch that made her body taut—with dread, not anticipation.

She was delighted when he returned that day in the late afternoon, and smiled brightly as he strode in. “You’re home early!” She beamed.

Bragg stopped, a funny expression crossing his features. Then he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an adorable way. “I like the sound of that, princess,” he said. “I’m tired of beans and the boys.” He started up the stairs. “Tell Elena to outdo herself for us, will you?”

Miranda felt a warm thrill watching him climb the stairs
so effortlessly, so gracefully, as if he hadn’t been working the range all day. She informed Elena that Derek was joining her for dinner, then hurried to her own room to change. She wanted to wear something special, something he would like, something he hadn’t seen before.

The gown she chose was a rich, vibrant turquoise, a color that was striking on her. It was low cut—immodestly so, she thought, a wonderful taffeta with full, billowing skirts. She left her hair hanging, tying it away from her face with a matching ribbon. The blue made her eyes seem even more purple, dark and mysterious, almost black. For some reason, her face was flushed, glowing.

Bragg was sipping a brandy in the study when she paused in the doorway. He immediately jumped to his feet, the look in his eyes telling her that he approved—very much. He smiled, still staring intensely, his topaz eyes gleaming. “You are exquisite.”

“Thank you.” She curtsied. She was overflowing with joy—everything in the world ceased to exist at that moment, except for the man standing before her, and his appreciation.

“Hungry?” he asked, taking her arm.

“Starved,” she said.

“That’s a first! Do you mind how I’m dressed?”

“Of course not, Derek, this is your home!” She meant it, and he smiled. He was clad in clean buckskins, his moccasins, and a plain linen shirt, open at the throat. She had become used to the way he dressed—it suited him. For her benefit, he removed his guns and knife when he was in the house in the evenings.

They sat, and Bianca served them roast pork, dumplings, sweet potatoes, collard greens, and carrots in a sweet sauce. Bragg filled both their glasses with red wine, then raised his. “To you, Miranda.” His words, so simple, were spoken quietly, but his gaze was so intense it was almost unnerving.

Miranda hesitated, remembering the last time she had so foolishly imbibed, then lifted her glass, touching his. “Thank you,” she said, sipping carefully. She put her glass down as Derek drained half of his. He drank too
much, she thought. But it never seemed to affect him. She frowned.

“What, princess? Why are you frowning?” His voice was soft, questioning.

“You drink quite a bit,” she said bluntly.

Bragg laughed. “Oh no! Do you intend to change my drinking habits, too? Will I always be judged and molded by my wife?” His tone was playful, teasing.

“Oh, Derek, I didn’t mean you to think—I don’t judge you.” She stopped, flustered.

“Of course you do,” he said, unperturbed. “You judged me the moment you met me, don’t you remember? I believe you called me a savage, uncivilized brute, a crude lout, and, oh yes, a barbarian?” He smiled.

Miranda flushed. “I take it all back.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and pleasant. “Don’t. You are right, and I’m sorry when I forget just how genteel and fragile you are.” His tone had become serious.

To cover her dismayed confusion, and the warmth racing through her body, she sipped her wine. Then she began to eat. The pork was delicious. Bragg told her about his work on the range, and she listened with real interest. She realized that she had been right, he did enjoy it, and she asked pertinent questions. He refilled her wine-glass and his, and she was surprised that she had drunk the whole glassful. The evening was so warm and pleasant, so wonderful, it was like a dream. She felt safe, secure, and…cherished. When had she ever in her whole life felt this way?

After dinner he took her hand and they walked out onto the veranda to lean against the rail. The moon was an exact crescent, almost white, set amid a thousand twinkling, glittering stars in a blue black night. There was a faint breeze, the tinkle of wind chimes, a horse’s nickering. She leaned against the man standing next to her without thinking about it, and was aware of his scent—brandy and buckskins, musk and soap. His arm went around her waist, and before she knew it, he was turning her toward him, pulling her against him.

She melted into his body, her face resting on his chest. His other arm went around her, and he held her like that
for a long time, the night suddenly becoming very, very still. She inhaled his scent. His warmth throbbed against her. She could hear his heart thudding. She slipped her hands from his chest and slid them around his neck. She could stay in his embrace forever. His hold tightened.

“Oh, Miranda,” he said huskily, his mouth pressed to the top of her head. She thought he kissed her hair, but she wasn’t sure. His hands roamed her back, gently. Something long and hard rose between them, pressing into her belly. She wanted to stay there forever. Her pulse began to quicken.

His hands began to quicken, too, becoming harder, stroking insistently. One moved over her shoulder, catching her chin. She opened her eyes, saw his hot, golden gaze fixed upon her, and felt his breath on her face. She closed her eyes, sighing, arching toward him. She wanted him to hold her tighter.

Bragg growled, a male, animal sound. His mouth touched hers, gently, softly. His tongue traced the shape of her lips, which opened of their own eager volition, then darted just barely between them, teasing, tempting. She opened her mouth wider, wanting his violation. His lips brushed hers barely, lightly, fluttering over her face, her eyelids, her nose, her ear. He nibbled her earlobe. A soft, weak sound came from deep within her.

His mouth returned to hers, hard now, and she welcomed the assault. She pressed against him. His tongue demanded entry, and she gave it eagerly. He explored with a growing frenzy, thrusting his tongue into her rapaciously, cupping her buttocks, urging that strange, delightful hardness against her in the same rhythm.

His mouth moved to her throat, kissing, nibbling, and she arched her head back to give him more skin, her hands in his hair, holding tightly, guiding him down to she knew not where. He gasped, accepting her invitation, his mouth descending, making her whimper. Then he nipped lightly, causing her to groan, and he buried his face in the soft swells of her bosom above the bodice of her gown. His breathing was loud and harsh and ragged.

She was trembling from head to foot.

He touched her breasts, gently at first, but she was
mindless with wine-freed passion, and she arched herself toward him. He cupped her, teased her nipple, and she shuddered. She felt his bare hand, so warm and large, slipping into her bodice, cupping the bare, swollen flesh of her breast.

A sane voice suddenly intruded upon her consciousness. What is he doing?

Had she spoken aloud? Because suddenly, abruptly, Bragg was gone. She almost fell, opening her eyes and clutching the railing. She tried to catch her breath. She was light-headed, warm and unbearably achy. She wondered, disappointed, where he was. She realized stupidly that she was tipsy. She turned and saw him behind her, looking as if he was struggling with the devil. She realized how she’d acted—again. It was like cold water being thrown in her face. She straightened, horrified.

“Release me from my word,” he said raggedly. He took a step toward her, then stopped. “Damn! Even if you do, it’s because you drank that wine. Damn!”

Miranda stood there a moment longer, horrified and yearning all at once. The two feelings were so strong, so equal that she was overwhelmed with confusion and dismay. With a gasp, she rushed past him. She didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed when he didn’t follow.