Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I’ll take a cup!” he roared.

  I poured one for him and carried it to him and took my own over in front of the fire, sipping it slowly as the crackling flames warmed my backside. He continued to work, finishing one page, starting another, pausing to consult a book open on the table beside him. He was wearing scuffed black leather slippers and, over old black breeches and a thin white shirt, a once-splendid navy blue dressing robe, the shiny satin worn thin in several places and slightly frayed at one cuff. He really did need a new wardrobe. All his things were falling apart. But it was more important for his kin to have decent clothes, I thought, remembering the conversation I had overheard between him and Bancroft. The Roderick Cane books made a fortune, yet, what with needy relatives in Scotland and the contributions to the band of rebels, their author barely had enough to live on.

  “How do you spell ‘heritage’?” he asked gruffly.

  “H-e-r-i-t-a-g-e. You spell cat c-a-t.”

  “Don’t get lippy!”

  I finished my coffee, had a second cup and then began to straighten the room. Gordon paid me no mind. He got up once to fetch a book, the skirt of his dressing robe making a soft, swishing noise. He had a faraway look in his eyes, still living his story as he searched for the book. The heavy black wave slanted across his brow. His face looked a little pale. I wondered how much sleep he’d had. Standing in the middle of the room, oblivious of my presence, he read a page or so and tossed the book onto the sofa and moved back to the table. I made an exasperated face, fetched the book, put it back in its proper place. Once the room was sufficiently tidy, I went into the kitchen, put all the food away, washed the dishes, and mopped up the sticky mess on the floor.

  “Damnation!” he cried.

  I hurried back into the front room. “What’s the matter?”

  “I just broke the bloody quill. It’s my last one. Run fetch me a batch of new ones.”

  “It’s after eight. The shop closed hours ago.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you buy some last time you were at the stationer’s? I can’t be expected to keep track of things like that! I’ve got work to do, important work!”

  “I’m not your nursemaid, Cam Gordon! I don’t even get wages. Don’t yell at me just because you got caught unprepared.”

  “I’m right in the middle of a very big scene. I wanted to get it finished tonight. I’ve been working most of the day. Damn! Damn, damn, damn!”

  “No need gettin’ in an uproar,” I told him.

  “Listen, goddammit, you don’t understand the first thing about creative—”

  “I ’ave an extra quill in my room,” I said patiently.

  “Why in hell didn’t you say so!”

  “You didn’t give me a chance. I shouldn’t’ve even told you, should’ve let you stew in your own juices.”

  He glared at me, brows lowered threateningly, eyes snapping blue fire. “One of these days, Miranda, one of these days—I swear to God, I’m going to lose control and choke the life out of you.”

  “Yeah, an’ I’ll scratch your eyes out ’fore you even get started good.”

  “Get upstairs and get that quill! Now!”

  I made a face at him. He clenched his fists, looking murderous, and I moved airily past him and went upstairs, feeling curiously elated. Sod was as ’elpless as a baby, really. ’Ad no idea ’ow ’e ever got along without me. ’E was full of bluster, always yellin’, always makin’ vicious threats, but in many ways ’e was a little boy. I got the quill and carried it back down to him, and he took it with a sullen look, pouting. I smiled to myself, longing to run my hand over that thick black wave and brush it off his forehead. He jabbed the quill into the pot of ink and was soon immersed in his work again.

  I put another log on the fire and wandered into his bedroom to straighten up in there. The odor of Lady Evelyn’s perfume still hung in the air like a cloying, invisible cloud. I opened the windows and waved a cloth, trying to get rid of the noxious scent. He’d managed to put the bed back together, I noted. The slats were all in place, the bed shoved back into its proper position. Remembering those noises and the look on her face when she came out of the bedroom, I angrily jerked the bedclothes off and wadded them up for the hamper. I fetched fresh sheets and put them on, carefully smoothing down the fine old linen that had been carefully mended a dozen times, the cloth thin with age. Taking out the spare counterpane of quilted tan brocade, likewise aged but wonderfully clean, I spread it out over the bed and fluffed up the pillows in their matching brocade cases. The room was better now that fresh air had driven away the perfume and there were no traces of the recent guest. Leaving the windows partially open, I sighed and went back into the front room.

  Gordon continued to work, scribbling away industriously as the old clock on the mantel ticked away. Fetching a book, I curled up on the sofa and read a few pages without any great enthusiasm. I wasn’t interested in German military tactics. Bloody boring, if you asked me. I was going to have to filch some money from the ginger jar and go to one of those dusty old stalls where they sold secondhand books and bring back something worth reading. Maybe I’d even be able to find a volume of Shakespeare to replace the one I had had to leave behind in the coal cellar.

  Putting the book aside, I glanced idly about the room, so snug and cozy with the fire burning low, the worn, comfortable furniture. Old wood gleamed. Faded pastel colors soothed the eye. The Scot worked in his aged navy blue satin robe, the quill scratching, making a noise like mice in the wainscoting. I gazed at him, studying the serious, intent profile, nose sharp, lips held tight, the heavy black wave tumbling forward. He paused, sighing, then flexed his arms, his broad shoulders rolling beneath the dark satin. He read a few lines, frowned, crossed out a word or two and started to work again, lost in that world he was creating on paper. How wonderful it must be to be able to do that, I thought. How marvelous to leave the real world with all its cares behind and step into another, more vivid, more vital, alive with fascinating characters whose lives you alone control.

  Wouldn’t mind writin’ a book myself one day. I was certainly learning all about the craft, observin’ the Scot, copyin’ his work. There was a knack to it, definitely, and without that knack you ’adn’t a prayer, but it seemed to me that the main thing was the ability to work and work and keep on workin’ even when it got rough and the words refused to come and the characters refused to speak and move about. Cam Gordon raged then, grew surly, ground his teeth, cursed a lot and wadded up quantities of paper, but he kept right on working until something clicked and the words began to flow again.

  It was well after midnight when he finally put the quill aside and stood up and stretched. He looked about the room in surprise, as though startled to find himself in London, in the flat on Holywell Street. He seemed surprised to find me sitting on the sofa as well. He stretched again and stepped over to stand in front of the fire, relaxed now, in an unusually benign mood. His work must have gone very well indeed.

  “Finish your scene?” I inquired.

  He nodded. “Finished an entire chapter.”

  “Have—have you been working all day? Did you get any sleep at all?”

  “I slept a few hours this morning. I was awakened somewhat rudely by an unexpected visitor. She was very unhappy.”

  “She?”

  “The lovely Lady Evelyn. It seems that when she left yesterday someone deliberately drenched her. Ruined her hair, ruined her gown, and her gown cost a small fortune. She’ll never be able to wear it again.”

  “What a shame,” I said, ever so concerned. “Who’d do a thing like that?”

  “Who, indeed? There were filthy, soggy carrot and potato peelings all over her, she claimed. If I’m not mistaken, there were carrots and potatoes in that abominable stew you tried to poison me with.”

  “Seems to me there were.”

  “What happened to the peelings, I wonder?”

  “I wonder,” I said.

  The faintest suggestion of a
smile flickered on his lips. He wasn’t at all perturbed.

  “What—what did you tell the lovely Lady Evelyn?”

  “I told her that if she insisted on visiting such disreputable areas of the city, she’d have to suffer the consequences. She didn’t like that in the least, had quite a few choice words to regale me with.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I had no idea she knew such words.”

  “Dudn’t surprise me one bit.”

  “She was extremely irate. Accused me of drenching her, said I was a villain, a heartless brute, an unfeeling monster and a stubborn son of a bitch to boot. I agreed with her, of course, and then I threw the baggage out.”

  “Good!”

  “Why did you do it, Miranda?”

  “I—I just ’ad an urge. Couldn’t resist it. Comin’ ’ere with all them airs uv ’ers, actin’ like she owned you, actin’ like a—a cur in ’eat. A woman like ’er—she’d ruin a man.”

  “She’s already ruined quite a few, I fear.”

  “You—you ain’t mad?”

  “On the contrary, I’m grateful to you. Lady Evelyn was becoming something of a problem.”

  “If she was so bloody much trouble, why’d you put up with ’er in th’ first place?”

  “The flesh is weak,” he told me, “and a man has needs. Lady Evelyn was all too willing to take care of them.”

  “I see. What-ja goin’ to do now that she’s gone?”

  “I suppose I’ll just have to look elsewhere,” he replied.

  He gave me a long look that I found extremely disconcerting, those blue eyes dark with something I’d never seen there before, and then he strolled over to the small, warped cabinet and opened one of the lacquered doors. He pulled out a bottle of wine I didn’t even know we had, poured a glassful and sipped it thoughtfully, looking at me over the rim of the glass. I felt something tremulous stirring inside of me, felt suddenly skittish and ill at ease. I fooled with one of the bell sleeves, puffing it back up, trying to avoid those eyes, but when I glanced up again he was still looking at me with that intense gaze.

  “I—you must be ’ungry,” I stammered, getting to my feet. “I’ll get you a bite to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry, Miranda.”

  “Some coffee, then. You’d like a nice ’ot cup uv—”

  “I don’t want coffee. I’m drinking wine. You look as though you could use a glass yourself.”

  “No—no, it—it’d go right to my ’ead.”

  He poured a glassful nevertheless and brought it over to me. I hesitated a moment before taking it, and when I did my fingers touched him and I felt a shock go through me. My hand shook, wine swirling in the glass. Cam Gordon placed his hand over mine, steadying it, and I thought surely I was going to swoon then, me, who scoffed at such namby-pamby foolishness. I was trembling inside, absolutely terrified with a new kind of terror I’d never experienced before.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Nothin’—just—just let me ’ave my wine.”

  Again the hint of a smile curled on those thin pink lips. He let go of my hand, and I raised the glass to my lips and took a great, greedy gulp of the wine and then a second one. It was like tart liquid velvet, smooth and tangy, warming me all over. I took another gulp, wishing desperately that he wasn’t standing so close, those blue eyes dark and smoky now, half hidden by heavy, drooping lids. Didn’t ’e ’ave somethin’ else to do? Did ’e ’ave to keep starin’ at me like that with lips slightly parted? I knew what was on ’is mind, all right, I knew full bloody well, and it scared the bejesus out uv me. I gulped down the rest of the wine, trying to be casual about it.

  “More?” he inquired.

  “Not bleedin’ likely. I—I’m already beginnin’ to feel woozy.”

  “You’re supposed to sip it slowly.”

  “Took your time tellin’ me, didn’t you? I—I ain’t one of your bleedin’ gentlewomen who ’ave wine an’ pheasant every day. I ain’t never ’ad it before, if you wanna know th’ truth.”

  “Relax, Miranda.”

  “’Ow th’ ’ell am I supposed to relax when you’re standin’ so close, breathin’ down my neck.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “It bothers th’ devil outta me.”

  “Why?”

  “You know bloody well why. I ain’t like your precious Lady Evelyn.”

  “You’re certainly not.”

  “I—I ’appen to be a—a good girl, whether you believe it or not, so you can just—just get that look outta your eye and get them ideas outta your ’ead, Cam Gordon.”

  “Those ideas have been in my head for quite some time,” he admitted. “I’ve been wrestling with them for weeks.”

  “You keep right on wrestlin’,” I retorted.

  He looked deep into my eyes for a moment, then took the empty glass from me and carried it back over to the cabinet and set it down. I heaved a sigh of relief. Couldn’t breathe properly when he was standin’ so close. Couldn’t think clearly. Still couldn’t. My head was all muddled and my heart was palpitating and I felt flushed all over. It was too bloody ’ot in ’ere, yet the fire had almost burned down. Several of the candles had spluttered out, and the room was a dim, cozy lair, pale golden light alternating with soft shadows and creating an intimate atmosphere that didn’t help matters at all. The bell of St. Clement’s Dane tolled in the night, deep and sonorous. Through the panes of the skylight the sky was a misty blue-black, shimmering with moonlight.

  He turned around and folded his arms across his chest, resting his buttocks against the cabinet and studying me with those hooded eyes. In the dim glow of candlelight his navy blue robe had a deep, silky sheen, and his face was brushed with shadow, looking leaner, looking lovely. I could handle the testy, hot-tempered Scot who yelled at me and made threats and threw things—I found it quite stimulating, in fact—but this sleepy-eyed, seductive Cam was another matter altogether.

  “I—I guess I’d better get busy copyin’,” I said nervously. “I ain’t a bit sleepy. I can probably get all of it done tonight. You—you go on about your business. I’ll just relight them candles an’—”

  “Be still,” he said.

  “I’ve gotta get that copyin’ done. Otherwise I’ll get be’ind an’ then you’ll start yellin’ at me an’—”

  “Stop prattling,” he ordered.

  I obeyed. I looked at him. I wanted him, I wanted him desperately, and he wanted me, too, and I’d never been so skittish, never been so shaky and defenseless. I seemed to be standing on an invisible threshold. I longed with all my heart to cross over it and enter the magical new world I knew awaited me, yet at the same time I fervently longed for things to stay the same. How many times had I nourished secret fantasies in those drowsy, dreamy moments in the wee hours of the night before sleep finally claimed me? Some of them had brought a warm blush to my cheeks, yet during the day I refused to acknowledge them, pretended they’d never occurred.

  “I see you’re still wearing that dress,” he said.

  “I—I didn’t think to change. I was ’ungry an’ I came downstairs an’ then I got busy an’—”

  “Take if off,” he said.

  “Right—right now?”

  “Right now.”

  “Not bloody likely! I ain’t strippin’ in front of you! I—”

  “Do as I say!”

  His voice was stern, scary. Hands shaking, I reached behind me and tried to undo the tiny hooks. I couldn’t. Cam Gordon crossed the room and moved behind me and rested his hands only on my bare shoulders. I arched my back, shivering now, cold all over, and I seemed to drift away into space as his fingers gently caressed the side of my neck. I was no longer standing in the shadowy room. I was floating, floating, and incredible sensations filled me, tight buds of sensation bursting softly into bloom, blossoming, spreading. He stroked my throat and shoulders and then began to undo the hooks, carefully, expertly, as though he’d had a great deal of pr
actice.

  I felt the bodice loosening, the rich red brocade no longer pressing snugly against my breasts. When he undid the last hook the bodice fell forward, held up only by the sleeves. He ran a fingertip down my spine. I closed my eyes, my knees so weak I felt certain they were going to fold under me. The sensations continued to blossom, exploding now, filling my blood with a tingling ache that was a delicious torture. He caught his thumbs in the bands of the sleeves and pulled down, silk sliding free. Moving around in front of me, he placed his hands on my hips and, kneeling, pulled the gown all the way to the floor, a bright circle of silk at my feet. I stepped out of it, kicking the gown aside, stepping out of the shoes as well. Cam Gordon straightened up and moved back a step or two, gazing at me with dark blue eyes.

  “Please,” I whispered. “Don’t—don’t do this. Let things be.”

  “I want you, Miranda. I’ve wanted you from the first.”

  “It ain’t—ain’t right.”

  “I find this primness out of character,” he said.

  “I—I ain’t bein’ prim. I’ve never—”

  “You want it as much as I do.”

  “That might be true, but this—this’ll change everything. We ’ave a—we get along an’ there’s no—”

  “You’re beautiful,” he said harshly. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  “Cam—”

  “There’s not a woman in all London to compare with you.”

  Wearing only the frail black lace petticoat with its skirts billowing like layers of finest black gossamer, I looked into his eyes, trembling. A force beyond my control compelled me to take the final step that would carry me over the invisible threshold, yet I held back, afraid even as that glorious ache swelled inside, demanding release, demanding fulfillment. No longer was I my own being, a separate entity, sufficient unto myself. I was but part of a whole, and only this man could make me complete.