The Price of Indiscretion (11 page)

She ignored him. He lifted her by the shoulders. Her head lolled to one side and then the other.

Alarmed, he laid her back on the pillow and lifted one eyelid. With a frown, she pushed him away and peered out at him through half-open eyes.

“How do you feel?” he demanded.

“Not good,” she answered, her voice barely a whisper.

“Not good?” he repeated inanely, trying to understand what was happening.

She made herself very clear by rolling over to the edge of the bunk and throwing up all over his boots.

Miranda’s eyes were glued shut. She’d try to open them but it was much easier to sink back into sleep.

She knew she had to rise. Her mother wanted her to watch baby Ben and hoe the garden. Mama said she did the job better than Charlotte, even though Miranda resented having to always watch the baby.

This was a dream Miranda always had. It had haunted her since her mother’s death.

However, this time, just as Miranda would start toward the door, Mama would try and ladle something foul-tasting into her mouth. She pushed it away and
yet Mama kept coming at her with the spoon until finally Miranda had no choice. She had to swallow it, and then Mother would leave her alone.

Time changed. She was no longer in her cabin but on a barge. It skated along a sea made of moonbeams and Alex was there, tickling her nose and pulling her arm. She swatted at him to stop but he kept trying to make her follow him.

She looked toward shore and saw her sisters standing there. They called to her but she couldn’t answer. She wouldn’t.

She’d failed them.

She’d failed all of them.

They didn’t know how much…but her dreams did.

Her dreams never let her forget that it was her fault her mother and Ben had died. She’d not watched the baby. The Shawnee had come, and Mother and the baby were struck dead in the morning sun.

Miranda had run to find her sisters. Everyone had thought she was brave but she’d run because she was scared. She’d seen them take her mother’s scalp. The brave had waved it in the air, and she’d run.

Sir William appeared and began hitting her with his gloves. His white gloves. Lady Overstreet warned him he was going to get them dirty and then what would he do when he married Miranda? He’d have dirty gloves to wear. They should be white, pure white.
White, white, white!

Miranda shouted she didn’t want to marry. No one listened to her. Charlotte kept insisting on a duke. Always a duke—

Everything went black.

Her father was there.

Her skin grew so cold her teeth chattered. He slapped her. He slapped again and again but she could not stop shaking. Ever since Alex, he hadn’t hesitated to use his fists. But it was Charlotte who bore the brunt of it. Charlotte who often came between them and ended up being slapped around herself, their father three times angrier than he was before.

She had to marry a duke for Charlotte.

She wanted Charlotte to be happy.

Her skin grew hot. She felt as if she was boiling inside. Someone had blankets on her. She kicked them off. It was hot. Too hot…and then she realized she was going to die and it would be all right.

Charlotte would understand…

Miranda was very sick. The fever was deep in her bones, and her body seemed powerless to fight it.

Alex cursed Esteves and his slack practices. Ports were rampant with disease. It was the harbormaster’s responsibility to see that it didn’t spread.

As it was, he would let none of his men close to Miranda and kept himself quarantined, too. He hated fever. It had carried off his mother and Shawnee half-brothers—but it hadn’t had an impact on him. By some twist of fate, he’d always been immune to illness. The Shawnee thought his invulnerability from the diseases that could decimate a whole tribe sprang from his mixed blood. Alex now used it to nurse Miranda, sitting by her side day and night.

When she shook from the chills, he heaped blankets on her. When her skin grew so hot, her own sweat dried immediately, he bathed her in cool water, pleading with her to stay alive.

Alex wasn’t a praying man. He practiced the spirituality of his mother and an acceptance he had learned on his own. White theologians had only angered him.

However, now he prayed to whatever God could save her. Miranda was very ill.

He’d toyed with the idea of returning to the Azores and dismissed it. If her body could not heal itself, she would need the services of a good physician, the sort that could be found only in London.

But the fever wasn’t the only demon Miranda fought. Through her restless mumblings and feverish rants, Alex learned her fears. He understood now her loyalty to her sisters and the insecurities that, in spite of her beauty, drove her.

He also heard her speak of a marriage to a white. Over and over she would repeat the word “white,” and he knew she did not love him. Not in the way he cared for her.

They were not to be. He had made love to her, but she would not love him. She’d never accept him…although he could no longer accuse her of selfishness. He and Miranda were victims of the violence of the American wilderness. Some chasms could not be crossed. He understood that now.

Sitting beside her, holding her hand, and praying for her life, Alex reached a point when he could let go of the possessiveness that had gripped him over much of his relationship with Miranda. In that moment, he could truly love enough to set her free.

She didn’t belong to him. She couldn’t. She needed to marry the duke she kept muttering about.

If she lived, he would see that she did.

They reached Portsmouth on the evening tide. The pilot would meet them with a doctor whose job was to inspect ships and quarantine them for disease. Alex could not let that happen. He and Flat Nose smuggled Miranda ashore in a small boat to a point where he’d arranged to be met by the fastest team and carriage his money could purchase.

By midnight, they were racing on their way to London.

M
iranda awoke in stages. She could hear everything, and yet her eyelids refused to open. It was easier to let them be.

She could distinguish voices—a man’s deep, thoughtful concerned one, a woman’s answers. In her delirium, she assumed the woman was Charlotte, and yet some part of her knew she wasn’t. She wondered where Constance was, but she was too tired to worry. It was easier to drift back in the darkness.

The dreams disturbed her. They’d start so pleasantly…

She was riding in a birch bark canoe down a river of golden water. It was autumn and the trees were a blaze of color. The water was clear. When she leaned over the side of her canoe she could see all the way to the pebbled
bottom of the stream, only there weren’t pebbles but gold. Coins of gold. Like the ones in her father’s chest. Only here there were many, many more. They were too numerous to count and they were hers for the taking.

Charlotte would be happy. None of them would have to marry. They could do whatever they wished.

She looked up, aware that she wasn’t alone, assuming it was one of her sisters, and wanting to share the good news.

But it wasn’t her sister with her in the boat. A Shawnee warrior, his face marked with red streaks of war paint, stood at the prow. In his hand, he held her mother’s scalp—

Miranda screamed. She finally let loose all the anguish and horror that she had felt that day long ago but had suppressed to save her life. It came from deep within and forced her to regain consciousness—

“Miss, miss,” the Indian said to her in a wee, feminine voice with a hint of Irish in it. “You must wake up, miss. Yer dreamin’. Please, miss.”

The scalp vanished from his hand. He shook her shoulders.

It was too confusing.

She opened her eyes in surprise and didn’t see an Indian but an oversized mobcap on the head of a blond-haired girl. She was about fifteen, with freckles across her nose.

Struggling to catch a breath, Miranda reached out to touch the girl and see if she was real. The tips of her fingers brushed warm skin. She looked beyond the girl to the walls and elaborate furnishings surrounding her.

This was not her father’s cabin. There was no golden river…but what was in its place was far finer.

Miranda discovered she lay in the middle of a huge canopied bed on a mattress as soft as down. The underside was a soft rose and the drapes and curtains a silvery hue with sky blue tassels trimming its edges. The quilt and sheets covering her were smoother than anything she had ever touched.

The room was the size of her father’s whole trading post. A rich, deep carpet in the colors of the heavens lay on the floor. The armoire and dresser were ornately carved out of light wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows were covered with drapes the color of sweet cream. They pulled against the morning sunlight. The atmosphere was cool and relaxing, and in the air was the faintest hint of flowers. The scent came from several large, painted bowls of potpourri strategically placed around the room. There was also the slightest fragrance of beeswax, letting her know that this was a well-cared-for home.

Bits and pieces of her memory returned. She could recall sitting in an inn in New York with Charlotte and Constance…but this wasn’t New York.

Nor was she wearing her own nightdress. She remembered shopping for one—

“Where am I?”

She was speaking to herself, unaware she’d said the words aloud until the maid bobbed a curtsy and said, “The home of my mistress, Mrs. Severson. I’m Alice. Mrs. Severson instructed me to wait on you.”

Miranda frowned. The name Severson didn’t sounded familiar. However, before she could ask any more questions, the maid said, “I must tell my mistress you are awake. Excuse me, miss. I shall go fetch her.” She left the room, going out an ornate, paneled door, her feet not making a sound on the carpet. She closed the door behind her, and Miranda was alone.

She sank back into the feather mattress, pulling the covers up almost to her nose and feeling very weak and insignificant. She started ticking off in her mind the things she knew, surprising herself by what she could recall.

Charlotte had sent her to London to find a husband.

They were paying Lady Overstreet to play matchmaker.

She and Her Ladyship had been on a ship—

Alex.

She remembered his entering the party with his hair down around his shoulders and his spirit defiant. She’d gone out on the terrace alone with him.

Memories returned with more details. The kidnapping…the kissing…
the making love
.

Her mind whirled from the memories.

No wonder her body felt alien to her. She’d made love to Alex and now found herself in this place, with people she didn’t know. He had to be close. She sensed that he was.

Her throat felt dry. She was thirsty. There was a glass and water on a bedside table and other accouterments of the sickroom. Images of Alex’s concerned face rose in her mind.
Where was he?

Miranda wet her lips, wanting a sip of water, wanting to rise and find answers to her questions, and yet it was easier to stay as she was—

The door opened.

She turned, expecting to see Alex. Instead, a lovely woman of about her age entered. She had a beautiful, welcoming smile. Her hair was dark, and she wore it up without the coyness of curls. Her clothes matched the elegant surroundings of the room. An air of serenity surrounded her, and Miranda relaxed.

“Miss Cameron, you are feeling better?” the woman asked in a well-modulated voice.

Miranda nodded, not trusting her scratchy throat or her voice. Her own hair felt lank and dull compared to this woman’s, and she hated not knowing any of the answers to the questions rapidly forming in her mind.

The woman didn’t seem to expect her to answer. She pulled up a small chair with needlepointed cushions and sat down beside the bed. “I’m Isabel Severson. You are a guest in my house. You’ve been very ill. We nearly thought we’d lost you.”

We.
Who was this woman to Alex? The sudden stab of jealousy was proof that Miranda was quite definitely still alive.

Isabel Severson continued. “You have lost an alarming amount of weight. I’m having broth brought up from the kitchen. It will be here in a moment.”

At the mention of food, Miranda’s stomach knotted and growled in the most unbecoming way.

Isabel smiled. “That’s a good sign. We’ll have you feeling quite the thing in no time.”

“Where—?” Miranda started, stopping when she realized she sounded like a frog croaking.

Her hostess anticipated her needs. She poured a glass of water and offered it for Miranda to drink. Now Miranda had to move. She lifted herself on her elbows, feeling as if it was the first time she’d moved in ages. The world swirled a bit.

“Take it easy,” Isabel advised her, holding the glass herself for Miranda to drink.

Nothing had ever tasted as good as that fresh water. Miranda didn’t stop until the glass was empty. She could feel her body soaking up the liquid. “Thank you.” She lay back on the bed. “Am I in England?” she asked. “Or is this heaven?” She’d meant the words dryly.

Isabel laughed. “Not heaven but London, although many believe it to be as close to heaven as one can get in this lifetime.”

Charlotte would think so, and Miranda remembered something else that was very important—she had lost their gold. It had been in her cabin on the
Venture
, under the bunk. Miranda fought panic. She couldn’t lose that money. She and her sisters would have nothing. “Where is Lady Overstreet?”

Isabel frowned. “I don’t know a Lady Overstreet.”

“Do you know Alex Haddon?” Miranda held her breath, fearing the answer.

“Yes, we are good friends.”

Of course he would be her
good
friend. Isabel Severson was beautiful. “Is he here?”

A shadow clouded Isabel’s eyes. “No, he’s not,” she said, the words sounding as if reluctantly drawn from her, and a certain sign she was lying.

Miranda shoved aside her jealousy, realizing Alex had exacted a fitting revenge after all. “Do you know where he is?” she asked stiffly.

“No. But,” Isabel hurried to add, “I don’t want you to fear for your future. You are our guest, and Alex left very specific instructions for how you are to be treated.”

“Thank you, but I shall not be staying long.” There, Miranda had proved she had her pride.

“Miss Cameron, you are in no condition to go anywhere. Please, Alex, my husband, and I would be alarmed if you were to go off without fully recovering.”

Out of the whole speech, Miranda heard only two words. “Your husband?”

“Yes, my husband. Michael Severson. He is Alex’s business partner. He is up in Yorkshire right now purchasing good English wool to sell abroad.”

Relief flooded Miranda. Alex hadn’t betrayed her. “So your husband owns the ship Alex sails?” she said, wanting nice, tidy, complete answers.

“Alex also owns the ship,” Isabel said. “In fact, he and Michael own three ships now. Alex doesn’t have to captain one but he chooses to do so.”

Alex owned three ships?

Isabel interpreted her stunned surprise for interest. “Sometimes I wonder why Alex works as hard as he does. Money means something to him, but I’m not exactly certain what. He just keeps it in the bank, where it piles up, more and more every day.”

Miranda took in again the richness of the room, the fine detail of Isabel’s dress, and realized that she herself was wearing a night rail of cotton lawn finer than anything she’d ever worn before. She remembered their conversation in the garden, his mocking her for needing to marry a wealthy man, for selling herself. He hadn’t been judgmental.

He’d been laughing at her.

The knowledge that he had been playing her for a fool fueled Miranda’s spirit with a vengeance. “I don’t know how he is. In fact, I barely know him at all,” she responded in a clipped tone. “Now, please, if you can help me, I will dress and be gone from here—” A wave of dizziness caught her off guard.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” Isabel rose and placed a gentle hand on Miranda’s shoulder to keep her in bed. “You aren’t well. You must stay here. I’ll talk to Alex—”

“So you do know where he is?”

Caught in her lie, Isabel had the good grace to blush. “Yes.”

“I want to see him.” Miranda didn’t know what she would do, but it would be angry and painful.

“I don’t know if you can,” Isabel answered. “I shall ask him. He obviously has some explaining to do, but, please, don’t worry. He will make it right. He is like a brother to my husband. I’ve known him to only do what is honorable and good.”

Like kidnapping,
Miranda thought irreverently. Not to mention what he’d done to her in his cabin. Her cheeks burned with the memory of her own culpability. She should have fought him off instead of letting him take all.

“You are welcome under our roof as long as you wish to stay,” Isabel continued. “Alex brought you here and saw that you had the best of care in London.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Almost a week.”

Miranda’s mind reeled at the number. She’d lost so much time.

“Alex has made every effort to ensure you have been well-chaperoned—”

That comment caught Miranda’s attention. She looked at Isabel, who didn’t appear to be teasing her. Alex must have spun quite a story.

“He even sent for your sisters. They should be here in, say, three months, maybe less.”

“And how shall they afford the trip?” Miranda wondered. “I have no money.”

“Alex is paying for it all,” Isabel answered. “He has instructed me to tell you that he will cover all of your expenses.”

“All of them?” Miranda questioned.

Isabel nodded, her expression tight. She’d clearly formed her own conclusions.

“I want to see Alex,” Miranda pressed. “I must talk to him.”

This time Isabel didn’t argue. “I shall tell him.”

A knock sounded on the door. Isabel called, “Come in.”

Alice entered carrying a tray. She set it down on the bedside table, Isabel helping her to clear a space for it.

“Miss Cameron, I know you don’t want to play the part of an invalid,” Isabel said, “but I believe you should let her feed you. Please, give yourself time to recover, and don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I promise you that. I’ll return shortly.” She didn’t wait for a response but left the room.

Miranda stared after her. She was going to see Alex. What had happened between in the cabin was very clear. She could feel his heat, the weight of his body, and she knew the taste of his skin. All was clear, save for Alex saying he loved her. She could have imagined the words. She no longer knew.

“Are you ready eat, miss?” Alice asked.

Miranda nodded, needing the distraction from her troubled thoughts and determined to recover her strength as quickly as possible.

Alex was pacing the floor of the library when Isabel finally returned from seeing Miranda.

“How is she?” he demanded before she could even speak a word.

“
Who
is she?” came the answer. “Alex, what is going on here? I thought she was a passenger on your ship who had taken ill, but look at you. I’ve never seen you unshaven, and you’ve barely slept since you brought her to us. Then there is this nonsense of wanting me to tell her you aren’t here. What are you hiding?”

He frowned. “She did ask for me?”

Isabel groaned her frustration. “Yes, and she isn’t pleased—”

“She shouldn’t be.” He moved to the window overlooking the fashionable square. “I have to make this right,” he said more to himself than to his friend.

“Make what right?”

He faced his friend. “I almost cost her life.”

“Her fever wasn’t your fault. In fact, if she hadn’t been with you, she could have died from it.”

“I ruined her.”

Isabel blinked, and then understanding dawned. “Then you should do what is honorable.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Isabel wanted to know.

“Because I’m not what she wants.”