Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  “We’ll burn the gown,” he said, “the petticoat, too.”

  “Yes. I—I could never wear it again. I should—should have burned it already.”

  “I’ll buy you a new gown, Miranda, much finer than this one. I’ll buy you a dozen.”

  “No,” I whispered. “That—that isn’t what I want from you.”

  He took hold of my shoulders and hooked his thumbs under the thin straps of the petticoat, tugging at them, and my breasts swelled beneath the cloth, straining, satiny white mounds and firm pink nipples barely veiled by the fragile black lace. He caught hold of the cloth, ripping it asunder, and in moments the petticoat was at my feet, in shreds, and I was completely naked. He wrapped his arms around me, drawing me to him, and the nap of his satin robe was cool and silken against my skin. A curious languor stole through me, rendering me helpless, even as newer, stronger sensations exploded silently inside.

  “I’ve fought this,” he said. “For weeks I’ve been fighting it, telling myself I couldn’t possibly be attracted to—to a savage little street urchin with the face of an angel and a tongue that would make a stevedore blush. You’ve bewitched me, wench.”

  “Da—damn you, Cam Gordon. If you feel that way—”

  “You come into my life like a starving alleycat, hissing and scratching and wreaking havoc at every turn, and I longed to strangle you, longed to dump you in the trash bin and toss you out with the rest of the garbage, and then, damn you, you made yourself indispensable, made me wonder how I ever got along without you.”

  “You—you ain’t exactly ’eaven yourself. You’re ’orrible lots uv times, an’—”

  “If I had any sense, I’d still do it, I’d dump you in the trash bin and toss you out before it gets any worse, but I fear I’ve already taken leave of my senses.”

  “Let go of me, you—you sod.”

  He tightened his grip, looking down into my eyes. His own were a dark, dark blue now, glowing with desire, half hidden by the drooping lids, and his mouth was inches from my own. This sweet torture couldn’t go on much longer, couldn’t, or I would swoon. He held me with his right arm curled around the back of my shoulders, and his left hand moved down my back, the palm sliding over the curve of my bottom, strong fingers curling around the flesh, squeezing. He parted his lips. I felt a violent tremor shake me.

  “I’ve never known anyone like you,” he said.

  “I—I ain’t so unusual. I—I just—”

  “You’re an original, a marvelous original—and all mine. Last night, when I thought I might lose you, I almost went out of my mind. I realized then I couldn’t possibly do without you.”

  “Do—do we ’ave to talk so much?”

  He smiled then, and I placed one hand on the back of his neck and lifted the other to smooth back that heavy black wave that spilled over his brow. He covered my mouth with his own, kissing me for a long, long time, his neck muscles working as his tongue thrust forward, the tip jabbing the wall of my throat. He crushed me to him, and I could feel the tension in that long, lean body as he forcibly restrained himself and fought the urgency that threatened to overcome him. He freed my lips and raised his head, his features taut, almost harsh. Lifting me up into his arms, he carried me into the bedroom and pulled back the bed covers and placed me on the bed.

  The room was cool as fresh air came in through the partially opened windows, but neither of us noticed. My whole body seemed to be melting with a warmth that burned like a sweet fever beneath my skin. I stretched on the cool linen sheets, writhing, waiting, and Cam stood at the side of the bed, looking down at me with an inscrutable face. The curtains stirred softly in the breeze, making a faint, whispering sound. The room was a bower of deep blue-gray—dark, velvety shadows brushing the walls, and pale shafts of moonlight slanted through the windows. I was bathed with silver, and it seemed I could almost feel the moonlight caressing my body.

  Cam unfastened the sash of his dressing robe, pulled the robe off, tossed it onto the foot of the bed. He sat on the side of the bed, and the mattress sagged slightly and I reached up to stroke his back as he removed first one slipper, then the other. What luxury, what bliss to be able to touch him freely, to feel warm flesh beneath the thin white cloth of his shirt. He stood up again, peeling off the shirt, dropping it onto the floor. I was in the middle of a dream. This was yet another fantasy, and surely I would awaken in my attic bed and it would evaporate into half-remembered vestiges of chimerical bliss, but I could feel linen beneath me and moonlight did indeed caress my skin and my Scot padded across the room to close one of the windows, naked himself now, a tall, lean Grecian statue come to life, warm flesh instead of marble.

  He returned to the bed and I lifted my arms and curved them around his back as he leaned down to kiss the hollow of my throat. His lips were warm and moist, lightly brushing my skin. I closed my eyes, spiraling into an oblivion of sensation as he kissed my breasts, the nipples tight, taut, threatening to burst as his tongue touched them. I gasped, clutching his back, and the springs made a groaning noise and the mattress sagged yet again as he climbed over me, looming there just above me, palms supporting him. Both of us were bathed in moonlight now, and then a cloud obscured the moon and blue black darkness covered us. He lowered himself onto me, his body heavy, pinioning me beneath him, my own a warm cushion for his weight.

  A moment of purely instinctive panic shot me back to the surface of reality, and I struggled, trying to push him off, and he was rough and stern, holding me firmly, parting my legs. I cried out as I felt the warm, hard, velvety soft tip of his manhood seeking entry, and then that rigid shaft thrust deep into the sheath of my flesh and met an obstacle and thrust again, again, harder, deeper, and panic possessed me entirely and there was a tearing, searing pain that made me cry out again and then the pain miraculously melted into a blissful ache as secret fountains sprang into being, flooding me with an ecstatic pleasure that grew and grew, swelling inside, exploding, again, again, yet again as he drove deep, rending me asunder, it seemed. His entire body grew taut, stretched on a rack of pleasure, and he plunged one more time, thrusting mightily with all his strength. He shuddered convulsively, as did I, and there was a final explosion and sensations shredded into soft sparks that burned out slowly inside and left me stunned, shaken, broken and breathless on the sweet shores of aftermath.

  He slept then, and I slept, too, awakening later when moonlight brushed my lids. The room was gilded with silver again, and his head was heavy on my shoulder, one arm clutching me to him, one leg thrown over mine. He grunted irritably in his sleep as I ran my fingers through his hair and moved my palm over the strong curve of his shoulder. He groaned, opening his eyes, pulling me closer, and we began to grapple again and he took me lazily and there was no pain this time, no panic, and the pleasure was intense, incredible. When we were done, when he was dead weight atop me, still inside, spent, I smiled and held him, lashes damp with happy tears I hadn’t known I’d shed.

  I was in the kitchen at eleven o’clock the next morning and coffee was boiling and filling the place with a marvelous aroma and brilliant sunlight splashed through all the windows and streamed down through the skylight and I was smiling again as I arranged sweet rolls on a plate. Cam was sleeping still, but I’d been awake for hours. I had bathed and brushed my hair and put on the blue cotton frock printed with small purple flowers I had bought at the secondhand store. Wrapping the fringed violet shawl around my shoulders, I had gone off to the bakery, selecting the most delicious rolls for his breakfast, and all the while there was a warm, wonderful glow inside me. I felt marvelous. I felt magnificent. My blood seemed to sing and I wanted to laugh aloud in sheer joy.

  I was still a bit sore down there, true, and my body felt bruised, felt pulverized, as though I’d taken a beating, but it was a glorious feeling all the same and I cherished every ache. Church bells tolled as I took the coffee off the fire and poured two cupfuls, placing them on a tray along with the plate of rolls and a spoon and a small whi
te sugar bowl with pink posies and a tiny pitcher of cream that matched. I heard him stumbling about noisily in the bedroom, heard water splashing and boots banging, and then he came into the front room and I met him with the tray and a smile.

  “Mornin’,” I said.

  “Good morning!” he snapped.

  “My, grumpy this momin’, ain’t we?”

  “I’m always grumpy in the morning!”

  “I know, not fit to live with until you’ve ’ad at least two cups of coffee. ’Ere it is, nice an’ ’ot, and I fetched your favorite cinnamon rolls, an apricot one for me. Sit down.”

  He sat. He scowled. I smiled. He drank his coffee and glared at me, and I fetched the pot and poured him another cup and added sugar and cream, stirring it for him, waiting on him as though he were an indolent pasha and me his happy handmaiden. He was wearing boots and black breeches that clung tightly and a fine white lawn shirt that was much too old and needed to be mended. I watched him proudly, possessively, and he finally finished his coffee and rolls and I took the things away. He was standing in the middle of the room with his arms folded when I returned, sunlight spilling all around him from the skylight above. His face was impassive, and, when he spoke, his voice was flat, utterly without inflection.

  “I owe you an apology for last night, Miranda. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I know what came over you, an’ last night was wonderful. I wouldn’t’ve missed it for anything.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?”

  “I did. I’ve told-ja that a number uv times, but you never believed me.”

  “If I had known—” He paused, frowning, looking very stern now. “I don’t make a habit of deflowering young girls. I never meant to touch you. You’re my responsibility, and—”

  “Cam,” I said, “darlin’ Cam, you don’t ’ave to apologize. I’m glad. I wanted you to deflower me. I—I’ve wanted it to ’appen for ever so long, an’ I feel glorious.”

  “Damn,” he said, uncomfortable now.

  “Somebody ’ad to be th’ first. I’m ’appy it was you. I’m yours now, all yours, and you’re mine.”

  “Jesus!”

  I laughed at his alarm and went to him and put my arms around him and tilted my head back and looked up into his eyes, and for a moment he looked exactly like a terrified boy, and then he sighed and shook his head. Merry noises rose up from the courtyard below. Children were playing. Dogs were barking. Women were gossiping at the pump. I gave him a tight hug and then stepped back and cocked my head to one side and told him it was time for him to start work.

  “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” he asked miserably. “I give the orders around here, and don’t you forget it!”

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  “You’re even more beautiful this morning. That hair, that face, that incredible body. I have half a mind to skip work this morning. I’m in no mood to start a new chapter. I’d much rather—”

  “I know,” I said, “but you ain’t goin’ to. Not—not till you’ve done at least ten pages.”

  “Life is hell,” he groaned.

  No, it isn’t, I thought as he moved sullenly over to his worktable. As I watched him sit down and take up his quill and open the bottle of ink I realized fully and for the first time just how wonderful life could be.

  BOOK THREE

  M.J.

  1747

  21

  It was the middle of april and spring was definitely here, a glorious spring, I thought, the loveliest I could remember. You didn’t pay much attention to seasons in St. Giles—it was either hot or cold, always uncomfortable—but now, as I sauntered back home from marketing, I savored the soft air that seemed to caress you and the wonderful smells of sap and soil and blossom. Under a sky of the palest blue-white the parks and squares were a haze of delicate green and yellow green as tiny leaves budded open. Daffodils nodded jaunty golden-yellow heads in the gentle breeze, while purple and blue hyacinths stood like stout beflowered pixies peering between their tall emerald leaves. Swinging my basket, heavily laden after an hour of haggling at the market, I turned down Fleet Street and, passing Holywell, moved on toward Greenbriar Court.

  We had moved three weeks ago, after the first printing of Gentleman James sold out. Sold out two days after it appeared, it did, and there had been four more printings already. James Burke seemed to be taking the reading public by storm, and the new Roderick Cane was far and away the most successful yet. For the first time in years Cameron Gordon was out of debt, actually had a bit left over, he did, even after leasing the house and buying me an entire new wardrobe. No more secondhand clothes, he insisted, and he was very firm about it. I was his “amanuensis” now, and I couldn’t go around looking like a ragbag. Amanuensis, I discovered, was just a fancy word for secretary. I was that, all right. I was also maid, housekeeper, body servant, errand girl and bed partner as well, but you wouldn’t catch me complaining, no indeed, particularly about that final role. We might be living in sin, not respectable at all, but those amorous assaults on my body—morning, noon or night, whenever he happened to fancy a bit of frolic—were deliriously satisfying.

  We still squabbled a lot. That hadn’t changed one bit. His temper hadn’t improved at all, and he now accused me of being bossy and uppity, said I was an aggravating shrew with the soul of a bourgeois housewife just because I scolded him for his messiness. He yelled and made threats and threw things, same as always, and I sassed right back and we usually ended up in a wrestling match, tussling violently on the floor, under the table, in the hallway, going at it outrageously and without a single inhibition. Cam was a wildly passionate lover, tempestuous and tireless, shockingly greedy, too. Never knew when he was going to hurl down his quill and start chasing me through the house.

  Sauntering down Fleet, I smiled, thinking of his voracious appetite, loving him so much I feared my heart might burst. I suspected that he was fond of me, too, although, being Cam, he naturally never said so. Any expression of sentiment was anathema to him, and Cam Gordon would face a firing squad before admitting affection for another human being, but there were deep feelings there nevertheless. Behind that brusque, thorny, querulous facade was a man as tender and thoughtful as any alive—he just wasn’t going to let on about it. Complex and mercurial he might be, often infuriating and always enigmatic, but I wasn’t planning to trade him off for a more traditional model. There’d never be another man quite like Cameron Gordon, and there’d never be any other for me. I knew that already.

  These next ten days were going to be rugged, I reflected, for he had departed for Scotland yesterday morning and I was going to miss him dreadfully, just as I had yesterday. Hadn’t been able to sleep a wink last night, skittish as a kitten I was, restless as could be. We’d been sharing a bed for three months now, and I’d grown used to snuggling up to that long, lean body, as close as I could get, his arms around me, his warmth warming me. I’d grown used to his snorting in his sleep and thrashing around and pulling all the covers off me, and without him the bed seemed bleak and cold and unnatural. Wouldn’t tell me the real reason he was going to Scotland, the sod, made some feeble excuse about seeing his kin, but I knew it had something to do with those bloody rebels he was in cahoots with. He was on some sort of “mission”—he’d let the word slip out inadvertently—and that worried me a great deal.

  He spent far too much time with that motley crew of fanatics, and I didn’t hesitate to tell him so in no uncertain terms. Slipping off to secret meetings two or three times a week, always at a different location, plotting, planning, giving them funds—it was insane. Dangerous, too. Extremely dangerous. Cumberland was still actively searching out the rebels—there’d been four more executions since Cam’s cousin rode to Tyburn—and it was just a matter of time until this group of subversives was discovered. I begged him to give it up, sever all ties with them—Bancroft did, too—but, stubborn Scot that he was, he refused to listen to us. The war was over, I k
ept telling him. Bonnie Prince Charlie had been routed and the past was the past, but Culloden had to be avenged, he declared. Cumberland had to pay.

  They had some crazy idea about assassinating Cumberland. I knew that much. Assassinate Cumberland, indeed! The Bloody Butcher never stepped foot out of the palace without a whole retinue of guards, never went anywhere in the city without a troop of soldiers in tow. Their chances of getting to him were about as likely as my being invited to tea at St. James’s Palace. And if by some miracle they did get to him, what then? They’d be cut to shreds, hacked to pieces by Cumberland’s men, the fiercest, most brutal band of soldiers in English history. It was nonsense, all of it, and I suspected that they realized that, too, and were playing at being rebels like little boys played with wooden swords. The secret meetings assuaged their wounded pride, made them feel less defeated and were probably no more than an opportunity for them to let off hot air, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous.

  As soon as Cam got back from his “secret mission” to Scotland we were going to have it out again, I vowed. Dick Bancroft and I would gang up on him and make him see reason, and if that didn’t work, I’d hit him over the head with a skillet. In the meantime, there was no point in my worrying about it. Nothing I could do. Ten days without Cam! They weren’t going to be easy. I’d see Bancroft a couple of times—he’d promised Cam to stop by and “check on me”—but what was I going to do the rest of the time? Lord John and Lady Cynthia might help, I thought as I crossed the street, although I was already beginning to grow terribly impatient with that pair.

  Passing Drake’s Coffee House and Messrs. Kenyon & Blake, Booksellers, I finally reached the narrow, cobbled passageway that led to Greenbriar Court, brick walls pressing close on either side. It was barely wide enough for a fair-sized cart to pass down, and you’d miss it in a blink if you didn’t know it was there. Down the passageway that smelled faintly of horseflesh, and there you were, the bustle of Fleet Street muffled by the buildings that surrounded the tiny, hidden court. Three old houses with minuscule lawns looked upon the circular, cobbled yard. The one on the east side was a pale, faded yellow with white shutters and pitched gray slate roof bleached near-white with age. I had no idea who lived there. It had been empty ever since Cam and I moved in. On the north side, facing the passageway and the backsides of the brick buildings on Fleet Street stood a large, rather decrepit gray house with two small, gorgeous flower beds in front, one on either side of the short walkway leading to the front steps. A Major Barnaby lived there with his wizened crone of a housekeeper. Retired from the military life now, the major was writing his memoirs and rarely saw the light of day, coming out only to tend his flowers.