Miranda's Dilemma (8 page)

He took a last stroll out to the balcony and admired the misty morning. He loved this time of day.

A flash of white amid the greenery caught his eye. He turned his attention to the cypress trees that marked the line between the edge of the garden and the beginning of the wood on the western side of the grounds.

He squinted and focused on a woman dressed only in a thin shift, her vivid auburn hair loose and flying about her shoulders as she ran.

He caught his breath.

Miss Miranda Jones.

What the devil?

She was the sort of ladybird who would never be seen publicly in such a state of undress and disarray.

It was too chilly for anyone to be going about so scantily clad. Much less such a spoiled, pampered high flier.

But there she was, barely dressed and out of doors, running, being chased by a group of men.

Despite his words to Cassandra the other day about the unsuitability of younger women to his parties, Adrian knew that Miss Jones was not the type of young woman who would lower herself by cavorting with a group of males at dawn in the gardens.

She was much too dignified for that.

He went to his wardrobe and threw on his trousers and boots then fetched his pistols and thrust them into his pockets. He flew down the stairs.

Once outdoors, he glanced back to the western side of the grounds. She was quickly covering the distance of the lavish garden.

With the group of young men close on her heels.

She dropped to her knees.

He ran to her.

Miranda sprawled on the ground. Her lungs burned. Hunger for air caused her to take huge gulping breaths. Not too wise. Nausea hovered at the back of her throat, gagging her. The twin sensations, the need for air and the compulsion to retch, warred with each other. She let go of the rail and turned to bend at the waist, gulping, gagging, trying to force her breaths to come slower.

Her heart thumped hard in her ears, it seemed to grow louder and louder and louder. Her heart seemed to have been pushed beyond its own endurance, it kept beating harder, faster, harder, faster! Her chest heaved, pushing each breath out with bone-rattling desperation. She had run and run, reacting out of pure fear.

She’d been running too hard to scream.

But she’d grown so dizzy. She couldn’t have run, or even walked, another inch. Not one inch.

“Miss Jones?”

Oh God, Oh God!

Run! Now!

But cobwebs seemed to have invaded her mind. Lead poured into her limbs, making them too weak to obey.

She gripped the torn edges of her chemise more tightly, as though that might protect her against so many clawing, pawing hands.

Animals!

She jerked her head up and screamed.

Chapter Seven

As Adrian leaned down, Miss Jones screamed, her hands flailing with nails extended, her eyes wide with hysteria. He managed to latch his hands around her arms. She struggled but weakened quickly. Wild, dilated eyes stared into his, then she went limp. 

He supported her inert form in his arms.

The pounding of booted feet brought his head up.

Adrian lowered her to the grass.

He wrenched his pistols out, then leapt to his feet and spun.

A group of young men came to a sudden halt, each panting hard , their faces flushed. A half dozen pairs of eyes gazed back at him.

Eyes that held the wildness—and violence—of mad dogs in a pack.

Drunken, mad dogs.

He leveled his weapons at them. “Don’t come any closer.”

He only recognized one or two of these boys.

How the devil had they managed to gain entry to his property?

“Come to join in the fun, Danvers?” Baron Harris asked, his voice falsely jovial with a hard, angry edge.

“Yes, we claimed her first,” said a young man he didn’t recognize. Two of the taller boys began to inch forward.

Adrian tightened his grip on his pistol. “Don’t come any closer.”

The two halted. Rumbling complaints and curses issued from the group. The hair stood up on the back of his nape. This could escalate so quickly. He moved himself so this his body stood between them and Miss Jones.

“What have you done to her?” Adrian repeated.

Forelocks stuck to flushed faces that glowed with sweat. Their bodies still heaved with their panting breaths. Lust, anger, a strange hunger for violence showed in their expressions as they glared at him.

He knew his pistols were the only thing keeping the thin veneer of restraint.

“She kicked Harris in the bollocks!” One of the young men shouted, his voice filled with indignation.

“Yes, she tricked us! She said she would take us but only one by one. We drew lots, and Harris won the first go. So they went off a ways away. Then she kicked him in the stones and ran.”

“Bloody spiteful little b—”

“What have you done?!” Adrian roared. He tightened his grip on  the pistol. “Tell me, or I’ll shoot your precious bollocks off!” They froze and gaped at him with ever-widening eyes.

He leveled the weapon at the tallest man. Prickles chased over his scalp.

For Christ’s sake, it was just a house party. Where the devil had such a situation come from? There were plenty of available women present. None of these young men had needed to resort to chasing an unwilling girl around the grounds.

How the devil had these boys even gained entrance to the estate? He remembered Miss Caster’s complain about too many young men at the party. He did not make a practice of inviting such puppies to these types of events.

“Peters,” he said to the young man he’d singled out. “Tell me what the hell is going on here.”

“Sh…she…that is we only…” The younger man frowned, then ran a hand over his wayward brown forelock that waved wildly in the morning breeze. “Good God, Danvers, she’s a courtesan!”

“What have you done?” Adrian demanded.

“It was a potion.”

Adrian whirled to stare at a short, pudgy boy with carrot-hued hair. “A potion?”

“Yes, just some harmless herbs and crushed beetles and other things. It, it…well, the old woman assured us it would make any woman more agreeable.”

“Agreeable?” Adrian scowled.

The boy’s complexion turned a shade on the gray side. “Aye, agreeable.”

“She agreed to drink this witch’s brew?”

“Well, it wasn’t quite…”

“You slipped it into her wine?”

Peters edged closer and put his hand on the carrot-haired boy’s shoulder. “Davey, let me explain this.” He looked to Adrian. “You know we didn’t mean any real harm.” He ran a trembling hand through his hair again. “We just wanted a little fun, we wouldn’t have harmed her.”

“Wouldn’t have harmed her?” Adrian repeated.

Peters stiffened. “She’s the next thing to a prostitute. Carrville’s gone. And she’s always held herself as though we, our lesser titles and the money lining our pockets, weren’t good enough for her. When were we ever going to have another chance to taste such exquisite and forbidden fruit such as she?”

“Did you ask her if she wanted to serve your lusts tonight?” Adrian demanded.

The men exchanged glances. Then Peters shrugged. “What good would it have done to ask? She’s a little ice princess.”

“She has a right to decide who she wants to give herself to.”

“But she’s a harlot, pure and simple.”

“Leave,” Adrian said.

“What?” Peters said.

“You heard.” Adrian stepped forward, his weapons extended. “Have your carriage readied and take your companions with you.”

The boys’ eyes widened. Then, as a group, they took flight, stumbling over each other in their haste towards the path to the stables.

The crunch of boots pounding on the ground caused him to turn. His sleepy-eyed  gamekeeper approached. Adrian motioned with one of his pistols. ”See to it they leave, immediately.”

The gamekeeper hurried off after the boys.

Adrian turned and knelt beside Miss Jones.

He reached beneath her and lifted her limp form into his arms.

He had made it half way back to his house when she began to quake, spasmodic shudders that wracked her whole body.

His heart leapt into his throat and pounded there.

Damn.

Fuck.

He lowered her back to the ground and rolled her head on its side. He held her shaking body and watched her retch up a mass of fluid that he desperately hoped was dark red wine.

Pray to God she did not aspirate.

The spasms stopped. She moaned but did not open her eyes.

He yanked his shirttail from his trousers  and used it to wipe her face.

She whimpered.

The fear in the sound struck him in his heart.

We wouldn’t have harmed her.

Bloody hell.

He should have challenged the lot of them.

But his intent had been to quell their madness. His mind had been focused on compelling them to leave so that he could attend to Miss Jones.

As it turned out, he had been correct in saying a young, unattended courtesan had no place at one of his parties. But he had been correct for the wrong reasons.

But damn it, he had not invited such young men to the party.

He might yet decide to take punitive action towards some of them, the older ones. Peters especially.

He lifted her into his arms, carrying her into the house… to his own chamber.

Why?

Because he just felt a general distrust of everyone in this house. Illogical? Yes, but he felt it nonetheless. She had nearly come to great harm whilst being somewhat under his protection, a guest in his house. He wanted her at his side so that he could watch over her.

The physician’s thinning, pale blonde forelock fell over his brow as he bent, his long, thin fingers moving gently as he carefully examined Miss Jones’ midsection. His scowl put a pang of fear into Adrian’s heart.

What was the old devil finding there?

Adrian cleared his throat.

Dr. Williams looked up, his expression turning into a bland mask.

But he couldn’t hide the contempt that burned in his pale gray-blue eyes.

Of course, with the Sutherland males’ reputation, the doctor naturally assumed that if Miss Jones had come to some nefarious trouble, then Adrian must be the culprit.

Adrian took a deep breath and swallowed back the bitter bile gathering in his throat, the taste of raw fear. “Well?” He couldn’t keep the sharpness out of his tone.

“What did the girl drink?”

“I don’t know. I was told it was some kind of potion.”

Dr. Williams frowned. “A potion?”

“Something to make a woman more agreeable.”

The older man compressed his lips, white showing around the edges where the fine lines had become more accentuated.

“They did not know what was in it.”

“I must know.” The doctor’s hard struggle to make his expression neutral was evident. But the contempt in his eyes had increased tenfold. “I will keep this in the strictest confidence, but I must know.”

Bile rushed into Adrian’s throat. He coughed and choked it back. “I do not know.”

The doctor’s expression turned grim and, with a jerk of his arm, he retrieved his black bag from the night table. He wrenched the bag open and pulled out the type of accoutrements that sent a chill through Adrian.

He knew, too intimately, what they were used for.

“Call for several pitchers of water,” the older man said, his tone as foreboding as his countenance.

Horror and denial crashed over Adrian. He had known the doctor must be consulted, yet he had not realized things might be this serious. He had wanted, with all his being, to believe that this would be one of those things she might simply sleep off. He swallowed hard, trying to hold back the wash of acid. “Will she…”

“I cannot say.” The physician frowned. “Her body temperature is low. Her breathing is very shallow. She’s gone into some form of shock.”

With ice forming in his blood, Adrian nodded and turned to comply. When he’d ordered the water, he returned to the bedside. Williams glanced up, his gaze sharp, the type of stern, commanding glare he’d given Adrian on that terrible night, years before. “You will have to help me.”

Chapter Eight

In her delirium, Miranda moaned. The boys were coming at her. . Taunting her. Shoving her. Grabbing her all over. Tearing her clothes. Oh God.

She screamed and shrank away. Now she was in the woods, running, running from the boys.

From nowhere, Winterton appeared and blocked her escape.

You’ll never know when or from where I will strike.

He scowled down at her and grasped her shoulders

No, no, no!

She tried to scream but no sound came.

Another set of hands seized her and held her down. Winterton grasped her jaw and pried it open.

She thrashed. She fought.

But they proved too strong.

He wrenched her mouth open and inserted something between her back teeth. She couldn’t close her mouth!

“Don’t fight us,” Winterton commanded as he stood above her.

He poured water into her mouth. She had to swallow.

“Swallow.” The man who held her stroked her hair. “Swallow, my love.”

What choice had she?

She swallowed and swallowed and swallowed.

And they continued to pour more fluid down her.

The nightmare continued. Hellish things occurred. Indignities on her person.

One moment she was in the woods, being pressed to the cold, damp ground. The boys were crowding in on her, angry, lusting, their hands clawing, pinching. Winterton rose above them all, his face distorted, hardened into petrified wood.

His laugh echoed. Evil. All powerful.

Next moment she was in a bed. Sweating, yet shaking with chills. Her stomach hurt, hurt so badly. Her throat burnt. She could taste the acid in her mouth. She’d been retching…

“I am sorry, so sorry, love.” A man’s voice, deep yet gentle.

Fear pounded through her. She sobbed and attempted to turn away. But hands held her head in place. There was a third man there now, she sensed him. She fought but couldn’t shake off their vice-like grip. They pried her mouth open.

Pried her jaws apart.

Oh God.

Oh God.

She tried to scream but couldn’t. Her whole body convulsed with chills while sweat poured from her. She couldn’t break free.

Completely at their mercy.

Oh, God, they wanted to kill her!

“Easy, now. We must do this. We must help you.” That same deep yet gentle voice. The man caressed her hair. “Take my hand. Hold it.”

His voice held such tenderness. His hand was so hard, so solid and strong.

She clung to him and slipped back into the dream.

Now Froster forced her to her knees. She fought and fought. She had never guessed he was so strong! He pried her jaws apart…

She screamed. “No, no!”

“You’ll please me!” he demanded.

“I can’t…I can’t!”

“Shh, shh, love.” The man with the gentle voice stroked her hair.

The man’s face was in shadow. She could only discern the white glint of his eyes and a heavy lock of black hair that fell over his forehead, limply. But his voice, so kind, his touch so gentle, soothed her fears. She tried to explain herself. “It isn’t that I won’t. I can’t.”

“Hush, you need to sleep now.”

She slipped into her dreams.

“On your knees, you brazen harlot!”

She was back in those rented rooms she had shared with Mama in London. In the kitchen, clad only in her nightdress with the floor cold beneath her feet.

Winterton gripped her mother’s shoulders. Forced her down on her knees in the kitchen.

“On your knees to me, you common doxy!”

“Stop hurting her!” Miranda cried.

Winterton grasped Mama’s hair and viciously pulled her head back.

Rage like Miranda had never known pounded through her. A red haze obscured her vision.

Red as the blood flowing from the open, gaping wound in Winterton’s thigh.

“I had no choice!” She panted for breath. “I had no choice. He was hurting her!”

“Hush, now.” The man said.

“He was hurting her. I told him to stop. He told me that I could watch or I could to go to the devil but that he did not care.”

“You’re safe now.” He caressed her cheek with his fingertips.

“No, no, she’s not safe. Not now. Carrville’s gone.” She panted again. “She’s not safe. Neither am I. Not any longer…”

“Sleep, love, you’re safe here.” The warmth of his lips touched her forehead.

Comfort. A warm blanket of comfort falling over her. Enveloping her.

She never experienced comfort from a man. Not before tonight.

A feeling of security settled over, like she had never known. She had not known how hungry she was for this kind of comforting, a man’s kind of assurance. Now she soaked it up.

She closed her eyes.

Miranda struggled to wake up. Her body moved as if in sand. Even her eyelids responded slowly. She fluttered her eyes. She gazed about the chamber. The lamp was turned down low, yet she could make out the shadows of plain, masculine-appearing furniture.

The sound of deep, even breathing drew her attention to the bedside. She turned.

A dark haired man sprawled in a wing chair, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly parted. She squinted, focusing in on the elegant, handsome features.

The Earl of Danvers!

She gasped.

Memories flooded her. Flashes of horror. She wasn’t quite sure if she recalled a nightmare; no it had really happened.

She felt the raw burning in her throat. She remembered the painful retching, the physician bending over her, forcing her to swallow more water, again and again and again. Then more retching.

Her mind shrank from the memories.

But she remembered something else.

Words of tenderness and encouragement. A large, strong hand holding hers. A man who had given her comfort.

That man had been…
Danvers
?

It couldn’t be!

It couldn’t be.

She stared at his sleeping face. His coal black hair was tussled, and his cheeks were shadowed by a healthy growth of stubble. How young he looked now.

How kind.

It wasn’t possible.

Her mind wouldn’t accept the juxtaposition of the arrogant nobleman she’d known and the man from last night. And before she could fathom it all, more images poured into her mind.

She sank back against the pillow and hugged herself.

Last evening. Those boys. Taunting her. Shoving her. Grabbing her all over. Tearing her clothes. Oh God.

You’ll never know when or from where I will strike.

Winterton.

He was behind the strange attack. She knew it. She just did.

The last bit of energy drained from her. Her eyes closed, and she could not hold back the darkness that enveloped her.

Adrian stared down at the girl in his bed. Her vivid red hair lay lank against the snow white sheets and dark shadows showed around her eyes. Her fair skin was stark pale.

He touched her shoulder. “Miss Jones?”

He gave her a gentle shake.

She moaned, softly, but did not awaken.

“You have slept so long. The doctor says you must awaken and drink something.” He gave her another shake.

She whimpered and turned away, as though trying to bury her face in the pillow.

“Come, love, you must awaken and drink.” The endearment slipped so easily from his lips. He felt like he had been through hell itself over the course of last night. Whatever she was, no woman deserved that kind of suffering.

He froze. The terrible gurgling sounds  his wife had made were suddenly as real as they had been when she’s made them three years ago on her death bed.  He saw, again, his wife’s lips turned blue.

They had fought so hard to save her.

But the very method they had used to save her had killed her. Accidentally.

Christ. This morning he had prayed. Prayed like he had never prayed in his life.

Those prayers had been answered.

Miss Jones had not aspirated any of the water forced down her. She had survived whatever noxious substances or poisons she had swallowed along with the wine.

Her heartbeat, temperature and breathing had all been declared normal by the doctor before he’d left. But he had warned Adrian that he must watch over her.

She must drink and begin to take on nourishment.

“Miss Jones,” Adrian said, more sternly, and gave her a harder shake.

Her eyes drifted open.

Pools of pale green, iridescent as pearls. Open and warm, with no trace of haughty disdain.

The beauty of her eyes made him catch his breath.

“You must drink.”

“My lord.” Her voice was hoarse and filled with incredulity.

He reached for the cup sitting on the night table.  As ordered by the doctor, Adrian and mixed the concoction himself: wine, laced with honey and a beaten egg. He put his other hand under her head and lifted her up. He put the cup to her lips.

She took a small sip then choked and coughed. She turned her face away.

He stroked the back of her head. “Drink for me, sweeting.”

“It hurts. My throat hurts.”

“I know, but you must.” He caressed her lank hair. “Come now.”

“Let me sleep.” She closed her eyes, and her body went limp.

He placed the cup back on the table with a heaviness in his chest. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts and listened to her deep breathing.

How long would she sleep?

Though he knew it was not good, he had vowed that he would not be so weak. He still reached for his bottle of brandy.

For the first time in years, he allowed himself a second glassful.

****

Adrian sat in his study, at his desk, staring into the brandy he swirled in the glass.

He’d come here for some peace, just a moment of rest whilst his valet watched over Miss Jones.

But peace eluded him.

All he could see were images of Jane, her lips turning blue. He could hear the sounds of her choking. He was watching his wife—the mother of his sons—die all over again.

So damned futile.

He had helped the doctor work to save her.

So damned futile.

He had just stood there and watched her die!

He’d been able to do anything to prevent it.

He bent his head and ran his hand through his hair.

It had been Jane’s twenty-third birthday and in the midst of the gala celebration, he, Jane, Dorothy and her husband had formed their own group in a cozy corner. The talk had turned to sophisticated topics of lovers and side-slips in marriages within their circle of acquaintances. She had put her hand on his arm and laughed up into his face. “And my lord, what would you do, if
I
were to ever tell you that I would bear another man’s child?”

He had thought she was jesting.

He had thought she wanted a gallant answer, one suited to please her vanity. She had, after all, just been rejected by her latest lover. What husband wouldn’t be sensitive to his wife’s bruised vanity at a time such as that. He had glibly replied, “Why I would be forced to call that man out.”

Pain sliced him through, not like a clean sharp knife but like a rusted razor, one that worked dully, slowly, a never-ending, blood poisoning sort of gutting. He put his hands to the back of his head, pressing down then he let his frustration and pain out a wail.

Damn it.

Damn his careless tongue.

He had been drinking that night. Heavily. He had lost track of Jane at the party.

The next time he had seen her, near dawn, she had been lying on the floor of her chamber, doubled over and writhing with the agony in her womb as the draught she had swallowed worked to expel the child.

If he could only go back in time, he would have said the right words. He would have taken her someplace private. He would have given her the correct answer.

If he had there would now be a third toddling child in their family and his sons would still have their mother.

It had been his fault.

All his fault.

The door burst open.

He jerked himself upright, his eyes focusing dizzily upon Dorothy.

Her eyes blazed with uncharacteristic outrage.

“I thought you had left,” he said, hearing the disjointed note in his voice as if from a distance.