Miranda (16 page)

“Preposterous.” Rubbing his jaw, Lucas stalked to the mantel and turned. “It would be moral and social suicide.”

“And you're such an authority,” Ian said.

“As it happens, I am.”

“And well paid for your expertise.”

Lucas flushed as if a fire had started inside him.

“Don't worry,” Ian drawled. “I won't let out your little secret. For now.”

Lucas thrust his open hand through his hair, mussing its golden perfection. “Miranda, elevating you in society was all we used to dream about. We knew it was the only way we could be together openly, without subterfuge.”

“I don't remember that,” she said, yet her voice had softened.

Ian felt an ominous thrum of sentiment. Jealousy. The steel-edged teeth of it sank into him. He braced himself against it. She was an Englishwoman, a Sassenach. She was supposed to mean nothing to him. Nothing at all.

“It's true,” Lucas said. “If only polite society would accept you, we could go openly to my family, be together with their blessing.”

Family.
Another poisoned stab at Ian. Though apparently in dire straits financially, Lucas had a warm and loving clan who looked to him, counted on him, loved him. Ian's mother had finally offered forgiveness, but even that would not replace all the stolen years, all the times he used to lie awake at night and hear her accusations in his head.

“You forget one small detail,” Ian said, his fist closing again. “Miranda is married to me.”

“Illegal Scottish handfast nonsense. It would never hold up in court.”

“Enough.” Miranda cut the air with her hand. “In the first place, Lucas, I cannot believe I ever put stock in the opinions of polite society. What they declare to be right or wrong is the most offensive and presumptuous tripe I ever heard. Their customs and mannerisms baffle me. Whoever heard of going about leaving cards on silver trays rather than paying a visit? Or dragging out a fashion plate in order to make certain you've dressed properly? I refuse to bow to artificial and irrelevant social rules. I feel quite certain I never have, and I never shall.”

Ian felt a smile form inside him, but he refused to let it out. He clung to his fury. Prior to his meeting Miranda, her safety had meant nothing to him. There was a time when he had known her only as a nameless, faceless traitor. He had been prepared to murder her, if need be, on behalf of British intelligence.

He had chosen instead to safeguard her. Or perhaps it was not a choice at all, but a way to affirm that he was still human, that a part of him was still decent enough to balk at harming a woman.

He had taught himself not to care about anyone, but Miranda threatened to bring about a sea change inside him, touching emotions he had never felt. She reminded him that he was a man capable of feeling love and affection and jealousy and contentment. And desire. Good God, until Miranda, he had not even come close to knowing the meaning of desire.

Now someone else was after her—someone who wanted her to die before she regained her memory. Before Ian could tap into his newfound well of emotions.

He would not fail her. If he had to lay down his very life to keep her safe, he would gladly do so.

“Well?” she demanded, setting her hands on her hips. “Do both of you agree to abide by my rules?”

“Fine,” Lucas muttered, “but I think you're overlooking the obvious.” He indicated the crumpled white cravat.

“Just make certain he stays out of my sight,” Ian said, jerking his head toward Lucas.

For the first time that morning, Miranda smiled. Coldly. Sarcastically. Frances had taught her well. “You are both such a comfort to me.”

* * *

The next day found Frances and her three guests mounted and headed for Hyde Park. It was yet another glorious summer day, pleasantly warm, the colors rich and lush in the sunlight. Miranda felt far more nervous than she should have, riding a dainty, even-tempered pony. Frances sat sidesaddle with a haughty assurance Miranda did not even try to emulate.

“I don't think I did much riding in the past,” she confessed to Frances.

Lady France's nostrils flared. She looked pointedly at Miranda's death grip on the reins. “So I gathered.” Yet when Lucas arrived on a chestnut hack, looking as glorious as the morning itself, Frances's control slipped and she allowed a smile. “Good morning, my lord.”

He lifted his hat to her. “Good. MacVane's not here yet,” he said.

Miranda watched the two of them thoughtfully. He claimed he was the man she loved. That may or may not be true, but what she could see for certain was that Frances adored him. The fact was clear to everyone except Lucas.

One of the few things Miranda knew without question was that the people in her life were all liars. For civilized people, they lied constantly.

“Mr. MacVane,” she said when Ian rode up, “I was just thinking about you.”

His sleek gelding put Lucas's hack to shame. He led the way from the yard to the main entrance, where two footmen swung wide the wrought-iron gate. At Hyde Park, the Ladies' Mile was jammed with curricles, chaises, landaus and ladies draped fashionably over sidesaddled ponies. Traffic was equally heavy on Rotten Row, sandy and more popular with the men.

This park, at this particular hour, Miranda now knew, was
the
place to be seen in London. Within a few minutes, she had recognized important ambassadors and princes and war heroes. Catherine of Oldenburg bellowed a loud “Halloo!” when she spied them. As generous as she was outrageous, she loved being surrounded by her new friends. “My guards, they do well, yes?” she called.

“Very well indeed,” Miranda said.

“When they're not reeling drunk on vodka or bathing in the fountains,” Frances murmured in an undertone.

Miranda pasted on a smile.

Satisfied, Catherine ordered her driver to take her back to the Pulteney Hotel for breakfast. Miranda watched the ornate buggy go. Like a gathering storm, a headache started behind her eyes. By now the sensation was familiar, and she did not fight it. She simply surrendered to the blinding agony, inviting in the shards of memory.

Where the hell have you been anyway? You reek of horse dung.
Rough speech.
A stranger's voice.

Then you needn't bother to ask where I've been. It's where they all go. Like pigeons in a shooting gallery.

No! It's too risky. We must stay the course, wait for the hour of glory. And you know when that is. You know precisely when that is.

When?
Miranda wanted to scream. But already the voices were sinking back into cobwebby black shadows, and she could not retrieve them. It was an exchange she remembered hearing, but she did not know the speakers. “Even if something were to happen,” she said, speaking aloud to herself, “why would it be today?”

Ian winked at her. “Because you're here.”

“Hah,” Lucas said disagreeably. “Because
you're
here.”

Miranda sighed in exasperation. They had argued late into the night, each pointing the finger of accusation at the other. This morning, Lucas sported a faint bruise on his jaw.

She reflected on how it felt to have men come to blows over her. Unpleasant in the extreme, she decided.

“We'll get nowhere if you bicker,” she said.

Frances led the way along Rotten Row, nodding regally at the people she passed. Miranda surprised herself by knowing quite a few of them. Lady Cowper and Lady Melbourne. Count Platov and the duke of Gloucester. The notorious Lady Holland, braving censure by sending plum preserves to Napoleon on Elba. Mr. Silas Addingham on a wildly expensive Irish Thoroughbred. The duke of Wellington. The crown prince of Prussia.

What a singular time to be in London, she thought. Every important person in the world was here. Possibly here in this park.

Wellington drew rein on his horse to exchange a few words with Lady Frances. Miranda's mentor, it seemed, had something to say to everyone. “Dear me, your grace,” Frances said with flutter of eyelashes, “what is this I hear about your wife having her servants wear French colors?”

“To honor the return of the Bourbon king,” Wellington explained with an indulgent smile. “Surely you see no wrong in—”

“They clash!” Frances said, touching her palms to her cheeks in mortification. “Red and blue simply shout vulgarity...”

Miranda shook her head. Over coffee this morning, Frances had argued with Ian about interest rates at the Amsterdam banks. Yet in public she took pains to harbor no thought deeper than the color of a ribbon.

Ian's mount was restless, so he let it sidle back and forth on the green beside the track. Lucas had his hands full trying to keep his hack from grazing. Miranda waited beneath the bough of a chestnut tree. The broad, five-fingered leaves nodded in a gentle breeze. It was so pleasant here, verdant and fragrant and alive with the voices of people visiting, greeting each other. Sometimes the sound of a lark would penetrate the socializing, but not often.

Then she heard something odd. Felt it, rather. It was like the buzzing of bees, somewhere in the back of her head.

A cracking sound split the air. A large chunk of the tree trunk exploded outward, splinters of fresh, moist wood arrowing into Wellington, striking his cockade, knocking his hat to the ground.

Miranda felt a stinging sensation on her face. Her pony reared. She lost her grip on the reins and clung to the edge of the saddle, but to no avail. She heard her gown tear, felt a thud all the way to her bones as she landed on the dusty track.

A pair of strong arms went around her, holding her close. Ian, she thought. Thank God he was here.

But when she looked up at him, she found herself gazing into Lucas's eyes.

“MacVane bolted like a craven at the first sign of trouble,” he said, explaining before she could even form a question. “Are you all right?”

Like pigeons in a shooting gallery.
The stranger's voice still haunted her.

She listened to the thump of hooves as Wellington calmed his horse. He and Lady Frances examined the wound gouged out of the tree. Count Platov gave a whistle, and the Cossacks formed a human shield around the tsar and his entourage.

“A shooting in Hyde Park,” Lucas said through gritted teeth. “What the devil is next?”

“A cannonade at Almacks?” She attempted to lighten the moment with a thin smile.
A warehouse explosion?

Why had she been there?
Why?
The question raged at her, but she clung to Lucas, wanting nothing more than to close her eyes and shut out the world.

He seemed only too happy to oblige her, drawing her partway into his lap and cradling her against his chest. “There, love,” he said, his voice a comforting hum in her ear. “I'm here. I've always been here. Someday you'll remember that, I swear it.”

His hand was infinitely gentle as he took a handkerchief and dabbed at her cheek. “Just a surface wound,” he said. “A tiny scrape. It won't scar, darling. But look up at me, there's another cut just here.”

She turned her face up to him. He bent his head very close, his thumb massaging her temple. Perhaps it was the shock of the sneak attack, perhaps the heat of the rising sun or the fact that she had not eaten, but she felt weak, willing to surrender, at least for a moment, to his tender ministrations.

Vaguely she heard Lady Frances's huff of indignation, but she didn't care, not now... Something was coming at her, slipping over her like a shadow. A memory. She tried to grasp at it. Strong masculine arms. Holding her.
Doing what?
Hurting or helping? The low thrum of a voice.
Saying what?
An endearment or a threat?

“Lucas,” she whispered, trying to tell him to help her to remember. But the shadow kept sliding over her, darker and darker. She forced her eyes open, and there was Ian astride his horse with the rising sun lighting him from behind. She remembered how he had looked the night of the fire, broad-shouldered, striding toward her, heedless of the flames that roared like dragons' tongue at him. He looked at her, just for a moment, then dug his heels into his horse's flanks and rode away.

Thirteen

A wise woman never yields by appointment.
It should always be an unforeseen happiness.

—Stendhal

M
iranda couldn't sleep that night because she was thinking about her father. He might be alive. Somewhere. He had to be. Her conviction that he had survived was simply too strong. But where in heaven's name had he gone? And who had tried to kill her?

She sprang from the bed, went to the door and opened it quietly. Since the attack with the cravat—Ian's cravat, she forced herself to admit—the suites of rooms on either side of her had been occupied.

The one on the right housed Lucas; the one on the left, Ian.

She supposed she should be flattered that two handsome men, both well respected in London, should set themselves up as her protectors.

Instead she felt torn and deeply suspicious. One moment she was certain Lucas was telling the truth about their past, their secret trysts, the tender flowering of their love. But then she looked at Ian and remembered the way he made her feel when he touched her, and she was certain
he
was the only man she could have loved.

She still felt a deep inner twist of longing when Ian entered a room. Still remembered the whisper of his hand over her cheek just before he kissed her.

She stepped out into the dark corridor. A slice of light from her bedside lamp illuminated the marble pillars and gilded walls. She stood there a moment, the need to talk to someone burning inside her.

She could wake Frances, but all she was likely to get was a grumble and a decidedly horrific glimpse of Lady Frances with her hair rolled in rags, her face slathered with a mask of clay and her eyes covered with the black silk band she wore to block out the morning sun.

Miranda thought of Lucas's tenderness after the shooting and knew he would listen with sympathy.

But she did not need sympathy now. She needed answers.

Before her courage failed her, she went to the door on her left and tapped lightly at the wood paneling.

It opened immediately, as if he had been waiting for her. For a moment she stood and studied Ian. He looked charmingly dissolute in a rumpled shirt with his cravat untied and trailing down his chest, his feet bare and his waistcoat and frock coat long discarded. He was not wearing his gloves.

She found his appearance shocking and provocative and appealing. Well, why not? she asked herself. She had seen less toothsome sights than a dark Scotsman in a state of half undress. He was fascinating, an expert at deviltry, an object of desire and—when he didn't think anyone was looking—a man capable of compassion.

He held a tumbler of brandy, which sloshed as he stepped back and gestured to her. “Come in, then.”

“You act as though you expected me.” But she stepped obediently into the room and stood before the hearth. A few coals lay scattered there, emitting faint light and warmth. A single taper burned on the mantel, dripping carelessly into its holder.

“I knew you were up.”

She frowned. “The floor doesn't squeak. I checked.”

He took a sip of brandy. “But the bed does. And I didn't hear it. So I could only conclude that you weren't in it.”

The idea that he could hear the sounds of her in bed caused a strange flutter in her stomach. “And where did you conclude I was?”

His expression went hard, belying his casual pose at the sideboard. “Ah, then you want me to say it. You want me to say I feared you were in the arms of Lord Lisle.”

Color flooded her face. She made no protest when he poured a glass of brandy and pushed it into her hand. She recalled the moment that morning when Ian had seen her in Lucas's arms, and guilt shot through her.

“I have no cause to apologize,” she said stubbornly, as much for her own benefit as for his. “Until I know what happened in the past, I don't belong to either of you. But—” She broke off, biting her lip to stop herself.

“But what?”

He had the most uncanny way of coaxing words from her, of knowing when something was bothering her. “This morning, after the shooting, he stayed with me, and you bolted.”

His silky laughter drifted through the dark to her. “I never claimed to be a knight in shining armor,” he said.

“But with so many people around, I thought—” Again she bit her lip.

He chuckled again. “You thought I'd feel compelled to prance to and fro, shouting for everyone to take cover. That would've made a nice show.”

“Still, to turn tail like that—”

“Unforgivable,” he agreed cheerfully, with a tiny slur in his Scottish brogue. “Call me fickle, but at the moment, it seemed judicious to find the source of the shot to see if I could apprehend the shooter.”

She took a healthy gulp of brandy, welcoming its burn in the pit of her stomach. There was always an explanation. She should give up even trying to catch him out. “Oh. I hadn't thought of that.”

“Neither, it seemed, did anyone else, which is why I went.”

“And did you find anything?”

“No.” He grew agitated, tossing back his drink and slamming the glass on a table. “It came from a rifle-barreled musket of the sort that was issued to thousands of British infantry. By the time I reached the cover of bushes, there was no one in sight. Just a mild haze of powder burn.”

“Do you think it was fired by someone who was after me?” She shuddered, thinking of the shadows that followed her, the sense of invasion she awoke with after a bad dream.

“I can't be certain. Wellington has his share of enemies.” His mouth tightened in a wry grin. “All heroes do. And heroines.”

She thought it an odd thing to say. She took another sip of brandy, shook off the speculation, looked into his eyes and wondered. Lover or liar? Lover or liar?

He stepped close to her, very close, so that she could feel the warmth emanating from him, see the curls of midnight hair that tumbled down his brow. “Why did you come here, Miranda?” he asked provocatively. “Why did you come to me tonight?”

“I can't stop thinking about my father. I keep getting the feeling that I should do something. Go somewhere. But I have no idea where to begin.”

His knuckles grazed her cheek, just below the place where a wood splinter had scratched her. “Perhaps you're trying too hard. Getting in your own way. I've tried to find a pattern to your returning memories. They seem to come through a side door in your mind, Miranda. When you're not trying to summon them. Does that make sense?”

She nodded, faintly astounded that he had been so observant where she was concerned. Was it because he could hardly bear to wait for her to remember that he was her one true love? Or was it because he was worried that she might look at him and realize she had never known him?

That was ridiculous, she told herself. Ian knew her better than she knew herself.

“Lass,” he said with a gentle burr, “forgive me for asking, but if your father survived, why do you suppose he hasn't contacted you?”

“Perhaps he has tried, but how would he know where to find me? Perhaps he is a prisoner again, or—” A chill slid through her, and she clenched her hands around her glass. “Or perhaps he is staying away from me in order to protect me.” She shut her eyes, trying to picture this man she wanted so desperately to find.

Papa.
She had always called him Papa. In her mind's eye, she saw the ragged ends of an old-fashioned tailcoat, regarding him from the perspective of a child.

Can't we stay with Lady Montfort, Papa? She was ever so nice to me.

I'm afraid we've worn out our welcome, poppet—

The explanation was interrupted by the memory of shattering glass.
And don't you dare come back, Gideon Stonecypher!

Miranda flinched and opened her eyes. She could not say why, but it was a comfort to see Ian there, waiting.

“I think,” she said with a trace of amusement, “that my father is a bit of a rake.”

“Can you remember any of his lady friends?” Ian asked. “Maybe he went to stay with one of them.”

“Lady Montfort,” she said. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“A tidy fortune and a terrible temper. And she passed away a few years ago.”

“I think she knew him.” Miranda thought of the shabby tails of the outmoded coat. “It must have been when I was very small.”

“Anyone else? Any clue at all?”

Miranda shook her head despondently. “No doubt there were others. Ah, God.” She sank to the chaise in front of the hearth. “Why,
why
can't I simply remember? What is wrong with me? What happened that was so horrible I cannot remember it?”

He sank down beside her. She gulped back the last of her brandy. He set aside her glass, took her face between his hands and regarded her steadily. “There is nothing wrong with you, Miranda. I dinna want you to blame yourself, ever.”

She wanted to say more, to tell him how fearful she was of what her memories concealed, but she looked at him in the candlelight and could not make her voice work. There was a dark invitation in his eyes, in the full curve of his lip. She bent forward slightly, at first more inquisitive than anything else, curious to see if kissing him now would be as devastating as it had been the last time.

It was worse. Far worse, and at the same time more incredible than anything she could possibly imagine. She seemed to fall into the kiss, her lips coming down to cover his and drink from them. He made a low, rumbling sound in his throat, something like a warning, but she would not be put off. The taste of cherry brandy, warmed by his mouth and tongue, had a sweetly narcotic effect on her.

She draped her arms around his neck, hungry, needy, knowing she had exhausted all her efforts to resist this moment. Despite his claim on her, Ian had kept his distance, and now she felt his struggle, too, as he pulled back to gaze at her.

“Is this the beginning of what I think it is?” he asked in a hushed, rasping voice.

“Yes,” she heard herself whisper.

“Then,” he said, “you have about five seconds to tell me to stop.”

“What happens after five seconds?” she asked.

“After that, a whole army of wailing Cossacks couldna make me stop.”

“So I'm five seconds away from being ravished?” Her fingers curled into his hair, into the texture of black silk. It felt sleek beneath her hand, and she was struck by the intimacy of it.

“Three, now.”

“Two,” she said, amazed by her own boldness. “One.”

“You didna tell me to stop, lass.”

“I know. I want you to go on.” She lifted her face and kissed him. Again. Then again. “And on...and on.”

“I suppose,” he said in a slightly strangled voice, “I can do that.”

“Then do. Please.”

* * *

All day long, Ian had been telling himself she was Lucas Chesney's whore. When he had seen her in Lisle's arms, a violent feeling had charged through him, a feeling that could easily have turned into a deep, fiery hurt.

He had buried himself in venomous thoughts. She was English. All the Sassenach women he knew were either harlots or cold fish. Since not even by the longest stretch of the imagination could he term Miranda a cold fish, he forced himself to conclude that she was a harlot.

Lucas Chesney's harlot. Perhaps the very day she had blown up the warehouse, the two of them had met and made love and laughed at the world. Lucas fooled no one with his claims of secret trysts, of keeping their treasured love chaste until he found the backbone to tell his family he had fallen in love with a woman whose blood was a shade less than aristocratic blue. A woman who might not be able to put several thousand pounds into the Chesney family coffers.

A woman who was as beautiful as the stars on a summer night.

She lay draped upon the chaise, watching him expectantly, defying him to dismiss her as another man's whore. Daring him to make her his own. His wife.

Never a great believer in self-denial, he took her in his arms and pulled her against him, feeling the curves of her body beneath the diaphanous layers of her gown. The rhythm of her pulse invaded him as he dipped his head to kiss her throat, slowly tracing his tongue along the ivory flesh. He felt himself wanting, wanting with a fierceness that was new and strange to him.

“Ah, love,” he whispered. “There are things I wish to do to you that you might find...shocking.”

She merely nodded, raising no objection.

No missish airs. He liked that. Perhaps she had been this way before, or perhaps she had forgotten false modesty along with everything else. It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered now.

He wanted her hair down. It was an unusual thing for him to desire; in general he paid little heed to the way a woman's hair was arranged when there were so many more interesting things about her. But Miranda was different.
Everything
about Miranda interested him.