Lord of Ice (16 page)

“Crispin!” he called sternly.

“Ah, Father! I did well!” He strode in, the candlelight gleaming on his curly golden hair. With a roguish grin, he plunked a handful of gold sovereigns down on Algernon’s desk.

Algernon had to fight not to smile. “I told you to stay away from the gaming hells, did I not?”

Reeking of smoke and ale, Crispin gave him a hearty wink, easily seeing through his disapproval. “You told me not to lose. So I didn’t. G'night, Father.”

He shook his head and sighed. “Goodnight, Son.”

The thing that nagged him most was how sharply Crispin reminded him of his elder brother, Richard. It was the twinkle in his eyes and the cocksure levity of his grin. Crispin did not worry about himself, but Algernon worried about him. Algernon worried about everything. He worried about Miranda and Lord Winterley. He worried about his silly daughters and his oblivious wife. He worried about his house, his title, the latest bill in Parliament, the Corn Laws, the 'Change, Napoleon, and the weather; and it had irked him unbearably that Richard, head of the family, had never worried about a thing.

Algernon blew out the candle and sat wide awake in the dark, listening to the dogs settle down again in the corner.

CHAPTER
SIX

The next day, the sky had only begun to lighten with December’s tardy dawn, but already excitement charged the frosty morning air. The graveled yard of Ye Olde Red Cow bustled with activity and rang with the cheerful voices of travelers journeying to see their kin for Christmas, only five days away. The shiny black coach waited in the yard, its roof piled with hampers and baskets, parcels and packages. Its gold-and-red lettering proclaimed it part of the Star Line, while its team of four horses pawed the ground and snorted steam, their docked tails twitching. The coachman greeted the boarding passengers, while the guard, his long horn in hand, climbed up to his post on top, keeping watch that no one trifled with the luggage.

Perhaps it was the result of too little sleep, but Miranda’s mood was giddy as she parted from Damien outside the inn and walked to the coach while he went to fetch Zeus from the stable. Climbing into the stagecoach with the other five passengers, Miranda was not too shy to claim a seat by the window, eager as she was to see the world. She watched Damien lead his tall white stallion out of the barn and admired the ease with which he stepped up on the stirrup, his dark woolen greatcoat swirling out gracefully behind him as he swung up into the saddle. The grooms gave the harness one last check; the coachman clanged his bell; then they were off.

For a while, she exchanged pleasantries with the other passengers, who described their holiday plans. Within the hour, the day grew bright, the morning sun gilding the fields of snow, but soon the rhythmic rocking of the coach lulled her. She dozed, resting her temple against the window until the guard’s horn brought her sharply awake, announcing the first stop: Rugby.

Damien rode Zeus over to the halted coach, leaned over, and knocked on the window. “Wake up!” he teased her, his deep voice muffled through the glass.

She smiled at him. Some passengers climbed off and others got on. The grooms harnessed fresh horses from the livery stable, and the coach rolled into motion again. Miranda blew Damien an impertinent kiss as the coach pulled ahead, leaving him behind where he had dismounted to tighten Zeus’s girth. It was not long, however, before he went streaking by on a flash of white, racing against the coach and beating it easily.

With a flutter of girlish admiration in her heart, she watched him and Zeus go galloping past. She shook her head to herself with a wry smile.
Show-off.

The stagecoach only caught up to him at the next stop. She peered through the window and saw him leaning against the post where he had tied the stallion. He toasted her with the cup of coffee he was drinking, sending her an arrogant nod of victory. She laughed, unaware of the nosy passengers watching their exchange. She got out of the coach to stretch her limbs, and he bought her a pastry from the coaching inn’s restaurant since she had slept through breakfast. She asked him if he was keeping warm, gave Zeus a pat on the neck, then climbed back into the coach. Once more, they were under way.

Thirty miles into the trip, she was restless to escape the confinement of the coach and begged Damien to let her ride with him for a while. He obliged her for the next stretch, sweeping down the even roadway at an easy canter, his arm wrapped securely around her waist. Miranda held on tightly to Zeus’s mane, glorying in the freedom of it, the gold December sun beaming on her face, the brisk wind rushing through her hair. At the next stop, she returned obediently to the coach, pink-cheeked, her eyes sparkling with exhilaration. She settled happily back into her seat and noticed the rather scandalized looks of the more matronly passengers. Privately, she gave a little laugh at their disapproval. It excited her to let them think that Damien and she were more than merely guardian and ward.

After another twenty miles, their day’s journey ended at an inn called the Jolly Rogue, just outside of Milton Keynes. If Ye Olde Red Cow had been busy, the Jolly Rogue was positively chaotic. Probably because they were so much closer to London, Miranda thought. In the yard, there was a great, dizzying shuffle of livery horses being changed out and coaches, post chaises, and carriages of all descriptions coming and going, while the various arriving stagecoaches disgorged hordes of fretful, hungry travelers. Unfortunately, by the time Damien had tended to his horse’s comforts, they walked into the lobby and were told by the harried concierge that there were no more vacancies—not even a stool left to sit on in the tavern. Miranda waited by the wall with their piled bags while Colonel Lord Winterley made himself known.

As if by magic, a room opened up about ten minutes later. He prowled back across the crowded lobby to her and picked up their bags. “Come.”

“Have they got rooms for us?” she asked, holding her breath.

“One—and that, only after a sizable bribe,” he muttered under his breath.

“Oh,” she said, swallowing her protest, but a mild jolt of alarm startled her maidenly sensibilities. Surely they were not going to
share
a room for the night?

There was no time to ask. Damien grasped her wrist and pulled her through the crowded lobby and up the stairs behind one of the servants, who lit the way to their quarters with a candle branch. She kept her mouth shut and followed, only glad to leave the crush below, for there were many people who would have to spend the night sitting in the lobby on their luggage.

The clamor below receded as the footman led them up to the shadowy top floor of the galleried inn and unlocked the last door at the end of the hallway for them. The chamber was neither as large nor as pretty as the one Miranda had slept in last night. Her heart pounded as she eyed the bed. It seemed awfully small.

The servant bowed out. “My lord. Madam. A chambermaid will attend you shortly. You may wish to sup here, as the dining room is exceedingly crowded at present.”

“Thank you for that advice,” Damien growled, giving the man his coin.

Miranda offered the servant a hapless smile and closed the door. A trifle nervous, she turned around as Damien dropped their bags in the corner and slipped off his greatcoat with an air of irritation. He draped his coat over the chair by the window. She peeled off her gloves and carefully took off her bonnet.

“Well, this is all very cozy,” she remarked, trying to lighten his scowl with good humor, though she realized he was exhausted.

“Cozy? To be sure, I shall enjoy sleeping on the floor. You know, if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is poor planning. I apologize for this. If I had known you were coming with me, I could have arranged for better accommodations.”

She laughed softly at his ire and hung her bonnet on the bedpost, tossing her gloves on the small table by the wall. “Nonsense. We shall fare perfectly well here. It’s just one night.”

“I suppose. But you had better not tell anyone about this,” he warned, falling wearily onto the bed. He lay back and closed his eyes, his booted feet still planted on the floor.

Miranda went around to the other side of the bed and laid across it on her belly, propping herself up on her elbows. She smiled as she studied him, then ventured a brief caress upon his silky hair, soothing him. “You take the bed tonight. I’ll take the armchair. I was able to sleep on the coach—”

“No.” His eyes were closed, but he seemed to be enjoying her light stroking on his hair. “I can always bed down in the stable, if need be.”

“Don’t be absurd. Our national hero?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her sardonically.

She tugged a lock of his hair, giving him a teasing smile. “I have put you out enough already, my lord. I’ll not throw you out into the cold with the animals, too.”

He merely sighed and closed his eyes again. “You haven’t put me out, Miranda.”

Her smile softened as she watched the tension ease from his angular face under her touch. “You rest a while,” she murmured. “I’ll find the maid and order our supper. What would you like?”

“Anything’s fine, as long as they bring it soon.”

“Done.” She climbed off the bed and glanced back fondly at him over her shoulder, then withdrew to find the servant.

When she left the room, Damien quickly shed his tailcoat and waistcoat, thinking he would use the few minutes that she was gone to clean his wound and to change the bandages on his arm. He was tired and hungry, but in truth it felt good to be needed again. He poured water from the pitcher into the basin, lifted his shirt off over his head, then dug around in his haversack for the rolled length of bandages that the surgeon from Morris’s garrison had given him.

He winced as he peeled the old bandage off his wound. A thread stuck to the scab that was just beginning to form. He cursed as it pulled. In his haste to finish the task of cleaning and redressing his wound before Miranda returned to find him half naked, he skipped heating the water and scarcely took time to use soap. He was wrapping his arm, the other end of the linen bandage secured between his teeth, when her light knock sounded on the door. He froze, his heart skipping a beat.

She opened the door and stepped in. “Your dinner is on its way—oh, my.” Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of him standing, shirtless, by the table.

Damien dropped the bandage from between his teeth, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “If you’ll give me a moment, please, I have to see to my wound.”

Her gaze traveled slowly over his bare torso. She tilted her head with a naughty little smile, closed the door, and leaned against it for a second, staring at him.

“Do you mind?” he scoffed, but even as he protested, his bandage came unwound. “Damn it,” he muttered.

She laughed gently and crossed the room to him. “Let me help you, you poor thing.”

“I don’t need any help.” He watched the enticing sway of her hips as she came toward him, then forced his stare to the floor, ferociously aware of her. “You should leave until I’m decent.”

“Should, should, should. I’m not about to let you stand there bleeding, when it’s my fault this happened to you in the first place.” She pushed him back with firm, managing care until he leaned his hips against the table behind him. “Stay,” she ordered. “Does it hurt very badly?”

“I’ve had worse.”

She reached up and cupped his cheek fondly. “You wouldn’t tell me even if it did, would you?”

“No,” he admitted with a rueful half smile. He felt no pain, only the pleasure of her simple touch.

“Well, the wine should dull the sting a little. Our dinner should be here any minute. The bill of fare is duck, pork pies, and roast beef with potatoes, by the way, so I hope you’re hungry.”

Starved,
he thought. His gaze drifted down to her lips. As she moved to his side and inspected his wound, he eyed the creamy expanse of her chest and caught a tantalizing glimpse of her ripe, womanly cleavage. He swallowed hard and looked away, fighting temptation for all he was worth, his heartbeat slamming.

Miranda did her best to hide her reaction, but from the moment she had walked into the room, she had been dazzled by the sight of his bare, bronzed body and rippling muscles. The warm, velvety smoothness of his flesh made her hands tingle with the need to caress him, but she tamped down the impulse, grasping one end of the cotton bandage.

She secured it over the wound. “Hold this end in place, will you?”

He cooperated, his stare fixed on her face.

She wound the length of clean cotton around his astonishingly large left biceps, hoping he did not sense her yearning to explore every inch of his magnificent body. She let her stare travel discreetly along the sleek arc of his throat to the broad planes of his shoulders and chest, delighting in the small, dusky circles of his nipples. Her gaze followed the center groove that ran down his stomach amid undulating ridges of muscle, ending at his ineffably cute navel.

She wanted to cover his beautiful chest and sculpted belly in light, nibbling kisses, pleasure him in all the ways that Trick had taught her three years ago in secret. The fleeting fantasy made her light-headed. She had not shared such intimacies with anyone since then; indeed, she had been ashamed of what she knew about men, their bodies, their desires. As a trusting sixteen-year-old, she had only obliged her handsome young cavalryman because she had wanted him to love her, but with Damien, it was totally different. Trick had cajoled her constantly each time or would accuse her of not caring about him until she reluctantly agreed to touch him, but Damien had merely to stand there and she could scarcely keep her hands to herself. He awoke her deep, genuine desire as no man ever had. She watched the play of candlelight and shadow flickering over his torso, then roused herself from the trance.

“You can let go of your end now,” she murmured, avoiding his gaze.