Lord of Ice (35 page)

The two, mangy, disreputable-looking brigands tracked her across the drawing room. She broke away from them and darted toward the fireplace, grabbing Damien’s wood-chopping axe. Then she whirled to face them, holding them at bay with the big, deadly blade, but they grinned as though they knew she could barely hold the thing steady, it was so heavy. She was forced to take several backward steps as they stalked her through the drawing room.

“Miranda, behind you!” Damien yelled suddenly.

She whirled around and gasped to find her Uncle Algernon stalking up behind her from the adjoining music room. He held out his hands to her.

“Come and give your uncle a kiss, my dear,” he said with a sinister smile; then he glanced in irritation at the pair of thugs coming after her. “Finish him,” he ordered, pointing to Damien, who was surrounded by a growing pile of corpses.

They grumbled, but returned to face the earl. Uncle Algernon turned to her with an indulgent smile. “Now, then, my pet.”

“Stay back!” she warned. “What do you want with me?”

“The same thing I wanted from your mother,
chérie.
When my men are through with your guardian, I shall take the pleasure from you that she denied me.”

She swung at him with the axe, but it was so heavy and hard to lift that the blow was wild. He laughed at her.

“What do you know about my mother?” she demanded, shaken by his ruthlessness.

“Only that she made a poor choice when she chose your father over me. There was no future in it.”

Miranda stared at him, paling with horror. “What do you mean by that? 'No future'?”

“Well,” he said with a shrug.

“You killed them?” she breathed.

“Perhaps, indirectly,” he said with a modest smile.

Miranda stood there, her mind reeling, when suddenly another voice broke into her thoughts.

“Father!”

She and her uncle both looked over as Crispin flung into the doorway, his guinea-gold curls tousled, his clothes disheveled. No longer trusting her cousin, Miranda swung back half a step to hold them both off.

“What are you doing here?” Algernon snarled at his son.

“I will not let you go through with this, Father! Call them off of Lord Winterley right now!” He glanced anxiously toward her. “Don’t be afraid, Miranda. I don’t deserve your forgiveness after my behavior, but I want you to know it was he who put me up to it,” he said, nodding toward his father in contempt.

“Why?” she demanded shakily.

“Crispin,” the viscount warned through gritted teeth.

His son ignored him. “Because of this.” Reaching into his waistcoat, Crispin pulled out an official-looking document and held it toward her. Your inheritance. You’re an heiress, Miranda. You’ve got a fortune worth fifty thousand pounds.”

Her jaw dropped as Algernon swung out at Crispin with his dagger. “Traitor!” he bellowed.

Crispin jumped back nimbly out of reach. “It’s too late, Father! I’m not going to let you spill more blood. I beg you, end this madness now before anything worse happens. Call your dogs off Winterley! He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Crispin, your father has just been boasting about killing my parents,” Miranda said grimly, moving toward her uncle with the axe as Algernon slashed again at her cousin. “Were you aware of that?”

“Yes, he revealed it when he threatened my life as well if I refused to try to compromise you. And there’s something else: It was he who killed our Uncle Jason. Agh!” Crispin cried as the knife made contact, slicing him open across his chest. He looked down at himself in horror, then at his sire. “Father, you have killed me!” he said in disbelief.

“Crispin!” Miranda screamed.

At that moment, Damien thrust off his final, dying adversary and stalked over the corpses of the gang, crossing the room toward them with kingly wrath in his eyes. He was bloodied and covered in sweat, but his eyes glowed silver with righteous fury. “You’re mine now, Hubert. Get away from Miranda—”

“No,” Crispin cried. Before he could stop him, Algernon swooped down and swiped the pistol that Crispin had tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

The viscount swept to his feet again, and Miranda heard him cock the gun with lethal intent as he took aim at Damien.

Her eyes widened.
Her mother. Her father. Uncle Jason.
Now he would shoot down her beloved in cold blood. She did not think. Something far more primal than reason overtook her. She lifted the axe with all her strength, a savage battle cry on her lips, and swung it on an upward angle like the warrior queen Boudicca, slamming it into her murderous uncle’s middle. It stuck there, folding him forward as the bullet whizzed over Damien’s head.

Algernon slumped to his knees and fell facedown on top of the axe. Miranda stared at what she had just done, disbelieving she had done it, while Crispin stammered wordlessly at the sight.

Then Damien came and wrapped his arms around her. She could feel him trembling after his exertions, but she could only stare at the spreading pool of blood pouring out from underneath her uncle.

“Is he dead?” Crispin whispered.

“He’s dead,” Damien panted, then glanced at Miranda. “Are you all right?”

“I—I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

He clasped her around her waist and kissed her forehead, turning her away from the sight. “You had to. You saved my life. Everything’s going to be all right, sweeting. Pay attention, now. Look at me.”

She did, ignoring her odd, vague dizziness at the nearness of so many dead men. She stared at his mouth, doing her best to focus her mind entirely on his words.

“Get the bandages from the trunk inside my tent,” he ordered calmly. “We’ve got to bind your cousin’s wounds before he loses any more blood. Crispin—Lord Hubert?” he addressed the young man with a grim, meaningful stare.

“Yes, sir?” he answered weakly.

“Off with your coat and shirt. Let’s see how badly he got you.” He stooped down and picked up the folded account papers, handing them slowly to Miranda before they were tainted by the spreading pool of blood. “Now, then, we are going to tell the authorities that we all four came into Bayley House together and found it occupied by trespassers, who attacked us. Algernon died fighting them. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” Crispin murmured, slowly pulling off his coat. His face was ashen.

“Good.” Damien turned to Miranda. “Bandages, angel,” he reminded her softly.

She shook off her daze and ran to do as he said.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

They were married three weeks later on the last Sunday in January. Flurries dusted the Wren steeple, which jutted up into the gray sky from the heart of the fashionable Mayfair district. Inside, the flower girl, little Amy Perkins from Yardley School, scattered rose petals before Miranda as she proceeded down the aisle on the arm of the duke of Hawkscliffe, who had kindly offered to give her away. Lizzie Carlisle followed, minding the long train of Miranda’s gown. She had chosen her lovable fellow ward as her bridesmaid.

Miranda clutched her bouquet of white, red, and pink roses a bit nervously as they passed the Society-page journalists, madly scribbling notes at the back of the church. Her and Damien’s engagement had made quite a stir, especially when the whole world had heard how they had been attacked by the “bandits” who had dared to take up residence at Bayley House in its master’s absence. Damien had been hailed as a hero all over again for his valor. Algernon’s death was lamented by few, but Miranda understood why Damien had allowed Crispin to salvage his father’s reputation.

The guilty party had been punished. If Algernon’s fratricides had been made known, Crispin would have been stripped of the title; the whole family would have been disgraced and, as the family was bankrupt, would have been cast out onto the street, if not thrown into debtor’s prison. Now Crispin had a chance to start anew for the good of his family, who—like it or not—were Miranda’s relatives, too.

Robert and she moved on at a stately pace past rows and rows of all the people Miranda had met on her adventures. All the members of the Knight family were present, except, of course, for the black sheep of the family, Lord Jack. She was thrilled to have been invited to call the duchess and Lady Lucien by their first names, now that she was to be their kinswoman. She saw Sally and Jane from Yardley and the kindly ladies from the charity who had taken them in; Lieutenant Colonel MacHugh, Captain Sutherland, and all the dashing officers of the Hundred and Thirty-sixth; fat Ollie Quinn and skinny Nigel Stanhope and a half dozen of her former suitors, looking downcast; Lord Griffith and his shy little boy; lastly, she passed Crispin and his mother and sisters. She sent her cousin a fond look as she went by him. She did not know what might have happened to her if he had not intervened that awful morning. She still shuddered at the thought of her evil uncle, but she cast out his memory, fixing her gaze and all her thoughts on Damien, waiting for her by the altar, magnificent in his military regalia. Lucien, his groomsman, stood by his side in a splendid gray morning coat.

The whole ceremony was a blur. Her heart raced, and her hand shook crazily when Damien tried to slip the ring onto her finger. It took him several tries, and he whispered to her to hold still. She laughed in front of everyone and quickly silenced herself. Then the minister pronounced them man and wife, and she turned to her husband with such a flood of happiness rushing from her heart she felt like she would burst.

“Lady Winterley,” he murmured, gazing deeply into her eyes as he pulled her into his arms.

The whole church applauded thunderously as Damien kissed her. Brazen as ever, she flung her arms around his neck and returned his kiss wholeheartedly, not caring a fig if the whole world watched. He ended the kiss, laughing at her ardor, and they exited the church to more applause, Miranda holding her voluminous white skirts up as she ran.

Outside, the officers of his regiment stood in two rows and made a gleaming metal tunnel, holding up their crossed swords. Damien and she darted under it while the church bells pealed wildly. They climbed into the festooned, beribboned carriage, pulled by four white horses with plumes on their heads, and were in each other’s arms before the coach door had scarcely shut.

The reception at Knight House lasted all day. Bel had hired French chefs to cook for the occasion, and these artists had created a mammoth bride cake to feed the throng of well-wishers who came and went until five. At seven, the house emptied and there was only time for a change of clothes and a brief rest before it was time for the more select dinner party, which lasted well into the night. Afterward, Damien and Miranda spent their wedding night in a luxurious suite at the elegant Pulteney Hotel on Piccadilly, since the smart Mayfair townhouse they had taken was not yet ready for them to move in.

They lay facing each other, staring into each other’s eyes. Miranda stroked his hair gently while Damien drew circles with his fingertip around the beauty mark on her left hip.

“Lady Winterley,” he whispered with a slightly dazed smile.

“I love when you say that,” she purred, snuggling closer. “I love
you
.”

“I love you, too. I can barely believe I get to spend the rest of my life with you, my mighty, magnificent Miranda.”

“Doting Damien,” she teased, hugging him.

“Aye, that I am.” He slipped his arms around her waist and rolled her atop him. “Kiss me, wife,” he commanded.

She did, and soon felt the evidence of his response.

“Someone’s waking up,” she murmured in a naughty little singsong.

“What a temptress you are. I’m going to like being married to you.”

She let out a happy shout as he rolled over, tumbling her onto her back, and moved atop her, kissing her deeply. She ran her hands all over his velvety skin.

“Do you know I adore you?” he whispered, pausing to stare into her eyes.

Burning for him, she pulled him down to kiss her. “Show me.”

“Mm,” he said, kissing his way down her neck, her chest, her belly, moving down lower still over her heated, quivering body.

With one hand on his hair, the other grasping the satin sheet beneath her, Miranda closed her eyes and arched her back with pleasure as he parted her thighs and licked her with a slow, savoring kiss.

Ah, this man,
she thought, panting with delight. Then her sweet, wicked husband proceeded to redefine the words
matrimonial bliss
.

All through February and into March, Bayley House was besieged by an army of carpenters, stonemasons, roofers, plasterers, painters, glaziers, cabinetmakers, and groundskeepers, with the great and much sought-after architect Matthew Wyatt as their commanding general. Since it was Miranda’s gold that resurrected the place, it was given to her to rename the property. She called it Winterhaven. Rounding the property, the river swelled as it melted in the spring sunshine.

She and Damien made regular jaunts from their graceful townhouse in Mayfair to the Berkshire countryside to monitor the workers’ progress. When a suite in the east wing was ready, they were able to stay for a few days at a time.

Damien’s cottagers fixed their roofs, and the legion of new laborers he had hired turned over the soil for planting. The smell of fresh earth and growing things carried on the balmy breezes as they rippled through the almond orchard on the ridge, scattering white petals on the air like a soft snow. It was Miranda’s favorite place on earth.

The stable was livable for horses well before the house was livable for people. Damien began buying broodmares for Zeus’s harem, as Miranda laughingly called it. The horses would be bred in the autumn, and the mares would drop their foals next spring.

In London, Jacinda and Lizzie finished their final term at Mrs. Hall’s Academy for Young Ladies and began readying themselves to make their entree into Society in late April. Miranda used a portion of her inheritance to send Amy, Sally, and Jane to the same excellent boarding school in Islington where the two older girls were ending their education. Meanwhile, Bel entered her confinement for the final term of her pregnancy, due in May, while poor Robert worried himself into a knot as she steadily grew great with his child. Lucien and Alice announced a blessed event of their own to occur in September. Little Harry turned four.

Day by day, Damien’s torturous memories slowly faded like the colors on an ancient battle pennant. But then, one day, news came that Miranda could never have foreseen—news that rang out like a death knell across all of England. In mid-March that news reached Winterhaven.

The unthinkable had happened.

Damien was inspecting the carpenters’ work on the repaired staircase when he heard shouts from outside. He nodded his approval and told them to keep up the good work, then walked out onto the portico to find Sutherland and MacHugh riding hard up the muddy drive. They passed his groundskeepers, who were planting plane trees to line the drive. In a few years, the matured trees would look quite stately. A smile of pleasure crossed his face at the prospect of showing off the improvements to his house to his friends. He and Miranda had spent the past week at Winterhaven and were delighted with the progress that was being made throughout the property.

The uniformed officers leaped off their horses and came running toward him.

“Winterley!”

“You aren’t in the city, lads. There’s no need to hurry so,” he drawled, leaning against the pillar with a half smile. “Welcome to my little paradise.”

They glanced grimly at each other.

“What is it?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“Winterley, Napoleon has escaped from Elba,” Sutherland said in agitation. “Haven’t you heard? He is marching on Paris, collecting an ever-growing throng of supporters as he goes. King Louis is preparing to flee.”

“Good God,” he whispered, shoving away from the pillar as his stomach plummeted with sickening swiftness.

“Wellington’s already on his way back from the Congress of Vienna,” MacHugh said. “He’s going to need all the experienced officers he can get.”

“Aye,” Sutherland chimed in. “Dozens of 'em were shipped off weeks ago to command troops in America and India. We need whoever’s left to go to Belgium. Do you see what this means?” Sutherland punched Damien’s chest in brotherly excitement. “We’re going back to war!”

He stared at them in shock.

“You
will
come back to London with us and help ready the regiment?” MacHugh asked.

Damien’s head whirled. His answer ripped out harshly from his lips. “No!”

Both men froze and looked at him in disbelief.

“No!” he said again, anger flushing his face. His heart was pounding. “Look around you! Look at this house. Look there.” He pointed at Miranda on the ridge some few hundred yards away, walking through the flowery orchard. “I will not come.”

They glanced warily at each other as though he must have lost his mind.

“I have a new life now,” he said in a shaky, impassioned voice. “I am a husband. She could be with child. I have my tenants to consider. I have responsibilities.”

“Of course, my lord” MacHugh murmured, clearly shocked. He lowered his head.

Sutherland looked askance at the Scotsman and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, then, Colonel, what shall we tell the men?”

“How should I know?” Damien retorted.

“Because they’re your men. You’re the colonel.”

“Not anymore. His Majesty’s army has had enough of my blood. Ask your questions of MacHugh. He’s next in rank. Let Wellington promote him.”

Sutherland glanced at the big Scotsman. “Right.”

MacHugh flushed slightly and avoided meeting Damien’s gaze, as though he was embarrassed of his selfish, unsoldierly answer. He cleared his throat and looked at the captain. “Might as well go back to Town, then. There’s much to be done.”

Sutherland nodded, then saluted Damien out of habit, but MacHugh did not give him that courtesy, only passing a guarded look of mingled puzzlement and reproach over his face that lanced Damien to the heart.

Bloody hell,
he thought.
This can’t be happening.

His men turned around and walked slowly, rather dazedly, back to their horses, as though they did not know where to begin without him to tell them what to do. He closed his eyes, feeling his whole, bright, happy future spinning away from him in a trice.

Napoleon was on the march. If the emperor took back power in France, then everything they had fought for, everything that so many of their friends had died for, had been in vain.

“God damn it, they will not be happy until I’m dead,” he said under his breath, then shouted, “Wait!”

They pivoted. “Sir?”

He glared at them as though it were their fault. “Wait for me in Town. Gather up our sergeants and see who you can recruit. I reckon we’ll finish it properly this time.”

Hearty, knowing grins spread over their faces. “Aye, Colonel!” they both said.